the sun is too bright
the day too hot
the whine of blue flies
fuels the memory of something
old
stale
and rotting in the centre of her soul
it's as if
some ancient taboo
has rekindled in her a cold flame
igniting something frightening
piloting her up from the deep sleep
of her dead life ...
his face is a blur where he stands motionless
just a bedlam of greys to her
then a chaos of colours
indistinct except for his cruel mouth
which gapes open and shut
shouting at her to hurry
and gulping at the hot air
in failing operatic gasps
that become maniacal howls
while she struggles with the camera
she is
confused by the machinery
that twists his features into a sharp focus
and the vibrancy of the image startles her eye
as if she were seeing him for the first time
he is a reverberation of someone she saw once in a newsreel
the same postage stamp moustache
his rat's eyes peering from the wounds of corpses
expressionless
vacant
pallid ...
the fluid green lawn seethes
whispers to her to steady herself
to take aim
and shoot
it's not what she wanted
not what she hoped for
not really anything more than a snapshot
but she relents, squeezes her finger
and shudders when the camera explodes
with a killing flash
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