I think this is mostly probably finished after a long round of work:
Broken
Recycled cans lie crumpled in the dust bin,
colors shaded by the warm afternoon sun
gliding to the other side of the house
for a better view.
Faux gold poinsettias
sparkle faintly in fading light,
their tarnished glamor clinging
to gold dust spilling through tiny holes,
circling them as they rest
on smooth, white windowsills.
The sun begins to fall,
its rays catching a clock face ticking,
moving toward a time that never comes,
clicking absentmindedly around a circle of hours,
vaguely remembering the years—
one after another.
Round and round
to the melancholic rhythm of my heart,
encased in a stiffened rib cage,
a body imprisoned,
warping round the beat,
shielding it gently with an open palm.
An empty pen tries to write a poem in my lap.
It starts:
The sun might mourn your lies,
but trust,
the sun, the house, the window—
they will never mend my broken heart.
c. Triada Samaras 12/2024
