The Photographer

A photographer forced to observe horrible tragedy, writes of what the victim would say.

I'd layed myself out as you scoured

Each inch of my bare, stick-frame,

Wondering what raced through your mind as the

flesh fused and all inhibitions melted,

You fueled it even as it singed me

to the very core of my being, and I wonder,

Could you feel the colour of my soul that night?

***

Still the flame roars, stronger,

It continues to devour rare, yet common innocence

and now shatters the harsh, unfeeling distances I'd then feared,

Confirming beyond doubt that the scars never heal,

while the flame forever lingers.