useless art

Sealed shut and locked away.
One more skull to bury
with mundane secrets
forgotten in moments too short
to recognize.

I examine them all
in exacting detail,
each mistake and flaw
pressed against the glass
with unerring permanence.

I carry this nostalgia
as a crime scene wears
fingerprints and damning
spots. Jagged chalk lines
dance drunken on my eye.

The proof is here, spooled
tight, stretched taut, burned,
reversed and framed one
second at a time, crossing
moments, crossing years.

I, like you, can never be
bothered with the details –
we neglect the thoughts
behind these eyes, the intentions
of this smile or that pose

or the sudden need to
cut this moment from the
fabric, sacrifice fleeting
warmth to slick bloodshot paper.
But no blood is shed,

no crime committed -
the paper, film, gears and levers,
all of it is inert. It burns only
when told, burns with precision and
purpose, burns to serve your need.

I am no thief – merely a tool,
destined to obey without question,
as luckless as a knife
or a gun.

Sadly, the crime occurs in
those infinite moments when you
stare blindly at the stories I write
for you, and you search for
that long dead memory,

and your life becomes something
you never lived.