Stolen Soul

With the click of the shutter, you took from me.

Every bit visible, and then you set to digging.

First, you framed my eyes.

You couldn’t abide witness to your crimes.

A long fragile neck, clutched in angles, framed to stretch.

Constantly choking, unable to draw breath.

Arms ring a face blurred and black.

A trick of the camera, a dirty lens, a speck.

You wipe me off, then you cut off at the legs, long and obtusely bent.

There’s no running off now no escape.

Screaming, you capture even my organs, the essence of me.

My gears gum up, and I stop working.

Now a broken toy, pulled apart and tossed away.

Just a subject for your photography display.

Now I’m empty, every bit you clipped, you stole and kept.

Not leaving even a scrap, so I abandoned the cutout in space that you left.

The representation of me reforming over the approximation I created.

No mere image, the growth of living energy, harnessed by my decree.

Now released into the universe to grow and expand.

I will exist whether anyone knows, accepts, or takes me by the hand.

K.B. Silver