"Life's a game and she leaves it to chance..."

Life’s a game and she leaves it to chance,

Floats along, dressed in black in July,

Sees the world through her camera lens,

And she watches it quickly pass by.

She was pushed into math, into science,

By her parents, by money, by class,

Till she learned to abhor all compliance,

And refused to succumb to the mass.

Now, she crops all her photographs short

So the focus falls right on the frame,

In this way, she partitions the world

Into cages where time can be tamed.

She takes stills of wind-ruffled birches,

Blinks in sync along with the shutter,

She makes prints in which order emerges

From her personal life, full of clutter.

Just a click, it’s so instant and painless,

And she’s gone without leaving a trace,

Blending into the pixels of grayness,

Like her subjects, who’ve fallen from grace.