The Photographer

A sun struck sky fills the watchers Eye with the breath of Inspiration, adding life to a creative subject not thought to be possible in a realm such as ours.

Lost in the designs of a forgotten language of communication it surfaces again, and again, Unnoticed by the normal eye, until it is frozen in time, Lavished by the frames of steel and bronze. Hung, on the wall as if it were a trophy.

Forever lost, its voice can no longer speak through sounds and no longer is it blessed by the music of sound it remains still but is tethered, bound by a paper, nothing more then a memory.

But soon as it appeared it descends again. Replaced by some new form of Birth, lost as if it had died as simply as it was born.

The Photographer

Georgeman1989

Joined September 2008

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  • Rheenie
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