Blind Photographer

A Poem by Kunda

A passionate photographer forced to quit

Do you have a passion,
A thing you love from deep within?
If in time you had to give it up
In place of absolutely nothing
Would you..
Could you..
Bear the thought of letting it go.
These, the thoughts of one's status quo:

Precision counts in this art,
Were realities are paused.
Patience is employed in part,
Pay for which is admiration caused.

The feel is one continuously sought;
Of framing in time: beauty's fragments.
Moments too rare to be bought,
When captured, stored as ornaments.

I never before did know any of this,
had it granted, and took it for-likewise,
till when like fallen in an eternal first kiss,
opened was I by my now-shut eyes.

Let to hear the timely click,
Whether slow or hurried.
Never to see the shiny flick,
Moods portrayed: happy or worried.

Oh! Disease that robbed me of sight,
Infect me again and take my passion.
Though no longer acquaintance to light,
The blind photographer; my living caption.