He Developed His Own Photos

He Developed His Own Photos

He developed his own photos,
Late at night when no one knew,
He worked beneath the quiet light,
Watching pictures slowly come through.

The room was dark, the world was still,
He worked with patience, time and skill,
A photograph would slowly appear,
Bringing yesterday suddenly near.

He loved the magic of the art,
Watching every image start,
From nothing more than blank and black,
A memory slowly coming back.

He could see the places he had been,
The people, faces, things he’d seen,
A rainy street, a summer day,
A stranger who had looked his way.

He kept the pictures in a pile,
Some were sad and some would smile,
Some held memories he adored,
Some were moments he couldn’t ignore.

Then he found one photograph one night,
Something about it didn’t feel right,
A picture taken long ago,
Of someone he’d once loved and known.

He held it underneath the light,
And memories returned that night,
The things he’d buried, things he’d said,
The photographs brought them back instead.

He realised that pictures don’t just stay,
They bring the past back every day,
A face can make a heart remember,
Even after years have passed forever.

So he developed his own photos,
Because he trusted what he’d made,
Every picture held a story,
Every shadow held a trace.

And when the final photograph appeared,
He smiled at all the years he’d feared,
For photographs may fade with time,
But memories somehow still survive.