The Photographer

Sometimes it is only in congregation that we can find true solitude.
Somewhere within the sound of a falsetto whimper
You walk the fine line between free spirit and chaos.
Sultry eyes hide behind lenses that capture the fleeting stories
Of murders upon murders of crows,
Black as the afternoon night of the Arctic Circle.
Where do you belong in this demented carnival?
Cultures and subcultures proliferate upon the crust of the earth
While you remain in the subterranean darkroom,
Processing negatives with toxic chemicals.
Someday you will be able to tell the story of the world's demise
With stunning images to force tears out of ducts
That have for centuries remained dry as dying roses,
But for now the hordes swarm busily around you,
Not to know how insignificant they really are.