Lens

I wander like a prophet, lost and lonely,
the cold metal against my skin.
Wanderlust.

I steal time itself, every moment, memento
framed perfectly, never to be lost.
Kleptomania.

I ponder like the philosophers of old, gazing at my work.
Was it good enough?
Reflection.

I keep like a scribe, my treasures
on display.
Collection.

They will live on, even as my time wanes.

My history will survive,
presented neatly in polaroids
and the snap of shutters.
Everlasting.