Holding the brush, I see you
trying to find a perfect balance for your hands to take.
And as the brush reaches the cold, slim paper,
the wind takes its toll and screeches to the right.
As the wind screams left to right,
the hollow brush follows
not wanting to let go of its ink.
It is writing something,
something that you could not understand
but you never questioned and
like the brush,
you let the wind lead you.
-
On the bottom of the mountain,
there,
I stand.
Holding a camera,
finding something to appease myself.
My job as a photographer,
merely surviving all the threats and sacrifices,
now reached the end of the road.
The road that is dark, and unfinished
with debris layering on top of each other.
Now, a photo must be taken.
Looking around,
nothing comes into the squares of the camera lens.
Shaking and sighing in despair,
I guess
no photo today,
no photo again.
However the wind takes my camera,
shaking viciously,
forcing my hands to move
to the direction of
where you stand.
-
*Click* *Click*
You lift your head to sense the noise coming from bellow.
You twist and turn,
no signs of delight,
just a serious look of being broken out of trance.
There is no more wind to guide you.
No more wind to shape the letters on the cold, slim paper.
No more wind to scream at the brush.
No more wind to change my direction for another scene.
-
I hand in my photo,
the last of my possession.
Everything I held on to
now gone
but this time
Im letting go of everything
proudly
Because the last thing that holds my name
would be you.
With letters swaying in a bunch
formed by the wind
saying,
"Today is your first opportunity, tomorrow is your last regrets."
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