It's Still Life

A Blot Upon It All

She calls me her blot.
Her watermark.

As if
she’d looked directly into the sun,
or a flashbulb had gone off
in too close a proximity.

Like January eyes – bokeh’d,
fogged, a wet ache,
foot-loose, if those eyes were feet.

Forlorn perhaps, but not always,
just as night can’t blot out the day,

or to see a field of rapeseed
un-tethered from yellow.

What a sight.
I am an ink blot in the wind,
her measure of dusk before darkness.

She says I’m a question
that falls away into a shadow.
These eyes are a dark sound.

A slow cull.
A camera’s flash residue.

Written for Miz Quickly’s Day 19: A poem in the first person voice from the view point of an abstraction (Sight with Macular Degeneration). Some artwork is created using Midjourney AI, and is identified as such in the ALT text or captioned. Images are copyright and not to used without permission, which I willingly give when asked, and when not for commercial use. Imagery and poems/prose ©Misky 2006-2024.