They were documentaries,
Action like sports,adventures,daring feats,
Parties and weddings.
They were in different forms,
Black and white,
They recorded history,
Made an impact of sharing emotional truth,
Held important documents,
Reproduced a moment,deep feelings,
Raised awareness against poverty,famine, abuses and disasters.
Reshaped public opinion on Government,
Conveyed emotions,moods, narratives,ideas and messages.
They are my Photographs.
the drastic difference of color between the two trees was shocking
one so full of life
soaking in all that was around it
experiencing the season and changing along with
it into something so beautiful you couldn’t
bear to move your eyes away from it
but the other was not
the other was stuck in the previous stage
unable to adapt to the new surrounding
brought to it
there was no hiding the fact
that it was unprepared and not capable
of keeping up
you pitied it because it was stuck beside the
most beautiful thing with
absolutely no comparison
I am the red tree
and you are the green
I am sorry you are not able to keep up
with the person I have become
Lonely is the day.
Lonely is the night
Weary is the wanders light.
Sad is the moments.
Sad is the dates.
Two souls fates.
Long is the weeks.
Long is the years
An ocean of tears.
Two paths will soon
Does love need a season?
The search is over.
The search is complete.
The wanders find a name.
But all they could ever leave behind
Was C+K carved in a tree.
reviewing memories of the ago
a log containing a spectrum's hues
times where light recalls stayed
so too the dark passages
the mind ambling of step
finding a happy tone
the black storm's cloud
the glass reflections
of prior complexions
roads gleeful and sorrowing
all in a chronicle's gallery
looking far behind to ruminate
on the range of shades held in the eye
But tomorrow I will try
To get all answers asked by time
What is right, and what is mine.
Yes, tomorrow I will fly.
I will turn, and I might burn
All I had to conquer.
Will burn to ashes.
Is to follow your heart.
Don' t tear it apart.
Just push the re-start
And don't look behind.
The voices are withering the vine,
with every leaf that crumbles..
they speak louder than mine.
When they talk, they do not scream..
softly spoken needles are driven in
to my mind and they whisper things..
See what they what they say,
painted emotions white washing
all cognitive responses of mine.
They look behind you, not me...
you reading this see the darkness
piercing you with chills while reading..