The Photographer

No one understand the old photographer.
He stands in his room,
Black and hazy,
lit slightly,
by a single,
Faint,
red bulb,
And he studiously,
Fervently,
Soaks his art
In brews,
of acids,
And chemicals,
Bringing forth,
the world as he see’s it,
The digital photographers mock him,
Call him a troglodyte,
Say he’s stuck in the past,
And as they mock him,
They press a button,
And automatically,
Print,
A digitally altered,
Pixilated,
Rendition,
of the world,
as they falsely see it.
“I made this an art,
And you took its merit”
The old photographer would say,
But the digital photographers,
they would only laugh.
They were blind to the true art,
They want to capture,
the enhanced,
Tasteless,
Misrepresented,
World they see,
While the old photographer,
Meekly,
Tries to show,
The world as it truly is.