|Posted by Mark Cantrell on March 7, 2015 at 1:55 PM|
By Mark Cantrell
Show moments of time frozen,
A window, from where faces of history
Can stare unknowing at the present.
Their time has gone.
Their bodies rendered dust,
Scattered by the hands of time, and
Long since dispersed by the breeze of
Still, these portraits of captured light
Prevail to say...
For there is nothing these chemical
Ghosts might say,
There is no word nor thought
They might comprehend of these days
Born beyond the era of their capture.
Lost to a contemporary perception gone,
They linger, bound
By the horizons of the photographer’s art,
The dimensions of paper, their limited horizon.
The message remains, such as it is,
Loud and clear from the wastes of yesteryear,
We hear, if we strain our mortal coil
To resonate in tune
With bygone lives,
There will come a time
When our thoughts are frozen in ink,
A day shall arise,
When all else I am is gone,
And I shall stare from the sliver of card,
A motionless photo-mirage,
A trick of the light, left over,
To whisper silent:
Here I am.
12 October 2009
Copyright © October 2009. All Rights Reserved.