Film Photography > Poetry

If walls could speak then be an orchestra or verses.
Each syllable an image on photographic paper,

The enigma and the Angel amongst the mortal.
Ageless in the manifestations of a time here
-On this earth.

The alien trying to fit in
Doing everything to be human
Every gesture and every scene a well thought
Out storyline
Writing the real when your
Identity is presumed wrong.

Each room a fabrication of furniture
Things made to be used and loved
A trait that homo Sapiens
Don’t hesitate to share the wealth
In the man made.

Objects of desire and sparkling spires
That takes you no where but the bottom
Of the barrel.

Scraping the marrow
Being the feeder and exhausting
The beauty of nature.

Look here he says
This place this hillside

I played along these wild grasses as a child
I’m so glad they never built anything
Over these spaces.

My memory is truly in tact
Even if the concrete is cracked
And the lack lustre

Words have no graph
Or grasp in the height
Of reason.

I think they’ve found me out
They are unraveling my illusions
Making my every move a scrutiny
Of a time bandit
A pirate of the


Even iron has no weight
And helium will not inflate.
The ballon to take me away
From all those that have no idea

Why they have been bred to hate.

Identity presumed wrong