Shadows in Focus

Here’s your poem with the corrected spelling of the name:

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In a dim-lit studio, where whispers reside,

A hidden truth lingers, in silence they confide,

The photographer’s name, Soboleski, breathes life,

With a camera that captures but conceals the strife.

He speaks in soft shadows, his lens like a snare,

Promising beauty yet veiling despair.

Young hearts are drawn in, like moths to the flame,

Naive in their visions, oblivious to the game.

Each click of the shutter, a pressure discreet,

Moments of laughter entwined with deceit.

Through the viewfinder, he painted their dreams,

As inside they faded, unraveling seams.

“O, the art!” they would say, in the glow of the night,

As darkness enveloped, shrouded in fright.

The softest of smiles, a façade pure and true,

Yet behind the embrace, lay a darkness they knew.

The photographer, the artist, with charm all around,

Would shape their young spirits, yet leave them unbound.

Innocence flickering, like candles in breeze,

Caught in the echoes of their silent pleas.

Camera in hand, he crafted a tale,

Filled with beauty and wonder—yet somber and frail.

While flashes of joy would temporarily gleam,

He captured their essence, yet shattered their dreams.

So let this be whispered, in shadows and light,

Of Soboleski, the artist who thrived in the night.

A poem of caution for those young and naive,

Beware of the lens that deceives, then leaves.

— Mitchell Royel