Teacups and Pens

'Click'

The scripture,

small and thin,

was sprawled

across the coffee-stained page.

It screamed

a horrid, blood-curdling sound,

one that might chill you,

right past the bone.

The words scrape

against the filthy cell walls,

waiting quite impatiently

for a sip of freedom.

Tears of fabricated pain

smear across the ink,

creating a visible stream

of never-ending misery.

The camera makes

a small ‘click’

as it soaks the image

in a pool of elaborate colors.

A silent chuckle

escapes the man

as he hurries away

with the remains of the photograph.

The crime has been committed.

What has been done is done.

Consequences are no longer an option.

For the writing has vanished.

In a world

of historical secrecy

the act of photography

is a fatal flaw.

Nothing but a scar

on the fair skin

of the society

we constructed.

Museums were the

birthplace and hometown

of the ancient pieces

of humanity.

Thieves no longer steal

Killers no longer murder.

Criminals only must press

one simple button.

One ‘click’ and

years are wasted, wear away.

Banished to the land

of eternal sepia-toned darkness.