Her is another edit!
(a few days later) 12/15/2024
The Artist and the Blind Spot
I wish I could unburden her closet
Decades-old clothes, a half-century even,
Crammed shoes from a wedding years past,
gasping for air on a dark, dusty floor.
Miles of papers swamp the kitchen,
Drowning tides,
Burying salt, coffee,
and the scent of madness.
Waterbugs appear, poisoned and brittle,
But the artist ignores them,
fixed on a blue spot
too fragile to grasp.
The rooftop exhilarates,
Heaves with long breaths and sighs
With the weight of dark days.
I look in the mirror to see it's my wound now—
a scar too deep to conceal.
Echoes of laughter can be heard in the rafters,
Cruelly remembering her past.
My bed has a corner for weeping,
A pillow for tears that props itself on the edge,
Vying for more space.
I have been still working on a new poem this week:
The latest version is here
The Artist and the Blind Spot
I wish I could unburden her closet—
Decades-old clothes, a half-century even,
Crammed shoes from a wedding years past,
Gasping for air on a dark, dusty floor.
Miles of papers swamp the kitchen,
Drowning tides,
Burying salt, coffee, and the echo of madness.
Waterbugs appear, poisoned and brittle,
But the artist ignores them, fixed on a blue spot
Too fragile to grasp.
The rooftop exhilarates,
Even with the weight of dark days
And haunting shadows.
I look in the mirror and see it’s my wound now,
An echo, a scar too deep to conceal.
My bed cradles the corner of weeping,
A pillow for tears that clings to the edge,
Vying for more space.
c. Triada Samaras 2024
The Artist and the Blind Spot.
I wish I could unburden her crammed closet:
Decades-old clothes, a half-century even,
Eyeing shoes from a wedding years past, gasping for air.
Miles of papers swamp the kitchen,
Burying the salt, coffee filters, and the madness.
Waterbugs appear, poisoned and brittle,
But the artist ignores them, fixed on a blue spot.
The rooftop exhilarates, even with memories
Of dark days and haunting shadows.
I look in the mirror to see it's my wound now.
My bed has a corner for weeping
And a pillow for tears that sits on the edge, vying for more space.
c. Triada Samaras 2024/2025
Here is a revised version:
The Artist and the Blind Spot
I wish I could unburden her closet—
Decades-old clothes, a half-century even,
Crammed shoes from a wedding years past,
Gasping for air on a dark, dusty floor.
Miles of papers swamp the kitchen,
Drowning tides,
Burying salt, coffee, and the echo of madness.
Waterbugs appear, poisoned and brittle,
But the artist ignores them, fixed on a blue spot
Too fragile to grasp.
The rooftop exhilarates,
Even with the weight of dark days
And haunting shadows.
I look in the mirror to see it’s my wound now,
An echo, a scar too deep to conceal.
My bed has a corner for weeping,
A pillow for tears that props itself on the edge,
Vying for more space.
c. Triada Samaras 2024
