It's Still Life

Torsion Without Tear

Some days, the world is clear-woven.
A linen of light, laid flat,

to read the warp,
the weft of a leaf,
the true grain of a face in the morning.

Some days are a slow, internal hand,
taking the cloth by its corners
and twisting.

There is no rip, no tear.
It torques —
edges sharpened,
but still whole.

A street sign with a severed spine.
A word sheared from its page.
A familiar face, now topographical.
Sight narrowed to a keyhole.

This is fucked, she growls at the distance.

Becoming an archivist of what was flat.
Becoming the memory of texture,
the ghost of what was.

They say, at least it is not total,
as if she should be grateful
for this dimming,
this slow divorce.

But they do not understand the covenant.
Eyes are faithful scribes,
silent witnesses who take the oath:
Till death do you part.

And this—
this is not death.

This is the witness turning, slowly,
from the window,
taking the light with them,
inch
by twisting
inch.

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Written for dVerse Poets prompt “I’d Rather Go Blind”. Some artwork is created using Midjourney AI. Poems/prose ©Misky 2006-2026.