The True Photographer

These things we see,

these scenes we capture,

the antique oaks

and granite teeth,

caught,

in the gums of the Earth,

these photographs,

the faces and the bodies,

that seem so real, to us,

are us,

a myriad of versions,

fractured,

of that one child of love,

scattered now in diatoms,

and sycamore,

hiding, in complexity,

our terror,

in form,

in curves and angles

and soft reticulations

that seem to spiral,

in sacred patterns,

suggesting an order,

greater than ourselves.

But there is no order,

no other,

only you,

and all is but reflection.

The true photographer is a seeker

of mystery,

on a quest to discover,

a great secret,

the answer to the riddle,

of this vast déjà vu,

we call a world,

we call a life.

But light is not external,

and mirrors,

don’t hold truth.

These thing we see with cameras,

are but fragments,

much more holy,

and beautiful,

than can be seen,

with eyes.

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4 thoughts on “The True Photographer

  1. Pingback: The True Photographer | Khud Guzini

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