The apparatus An intricate recorder To reorganize the frames And put perceived reality in order
The skill ' an acquired art To focus on the desired shot Light, sound, setting and aperture To capture that perfect inverted picture
The moments, people and places Frozen in time and space For our viewing pleasure When we find the leisure
Random images are retained By this apparatus at days end What happens to events that fade away Without leaving its trace in any way?
Is there a thrash can in our head Where lost memories are constantly fed? How it matters what we retain or discard When every apparatus ends in a junkyard?
