the first form of slow glass

the light slowly bleaches out the forms
of men and women trapped within the glass
we do not notice each day as we pass
for ignorance and apathy are our norms
we'd rather forget the long hard storms
the fury of the fighting the huge mass
of people wounded dying there's no class
to teach the photographer who performs
the magic of transferring what was light
into fixed shapes and then traps them here
where they fade slowly under the same sun
that gave them form perhaps in the night
the moon's softer refulgence lets them bear
an echo of the image before they're gone