This Poem Is About My Camera

May 1, 2011
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Poised. Focused. My rifle at the ready, I caress it’s tight strap
With my hand, burning, craving to remove it, to take it from its position on my back.
I’ve known, long enough now, that there’s to turning back.
I must be cautious, I must be wise. I must utilize my eyes to their fullest extent.
I must look for a moment. A specific moment. The perfect
Window of opportunity
I cannot tarry, there is no waiting for me. There is time better spent.
There a moment, and then the next
My target checks and moves and checks and moves to no end
I take my rifle from my shoulder and pull it over
Wary not to break or harass any of its intricate machinery in haste.
I twist the scope, slightly, ever so slightly. Focusing. Focusing.
I ready it. I steady it. I look down the sights.
I aim at my target. Calm my breath. Focusing. Focusing.
I take a shot.
It’s crystal, It’s clear.
The air seems to stop. The moment stays.
I have my target. I own it now.
This is my rifle. There are many like it. But this one is mine.
And with it, I can stop time.
And my target.
Moves on.

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