Photo by Andrik Langfield on Unsplash

Each night
Her vision grew indistinct
Smudged with soot
Smeared with smoke
Beclouded by gloomy fog
As the thick rims came off.
After some fumbling
And clumsy toe-stubs
She would reach out
To turn the last lamp off
In a failed attempt
To function
Without help
Without clarity
Without glasses.
The eyelids dropped
Like iron shutters
And sight was put to rest.

Moments in time
The spotty
Tainted view of the world
Was delusive
Every object
Shifted positions
In fuzzy coordinates
To spread farther away.
The colours
In a state of flux
Hard to locate
Harder to grab
They played a nasty game.

Come morning,
The instrument would rest
On her nose again
To un-whack the head
From the blow of the night
To retrieve accuracy

And she would get to work
With rolled up sleeves
Retracting from the world
To mount a spotless canvas
On the empty easel
And cloak the palette
With paints
Of pale hues and deep tones.
Her day would fill up
With brushstrokes and fluids
And ideas behind closed eyes
Until the white
Was imbued with coats
And dabbed with swabs
And misty fingerprints.
Until it had the haze
Of art.

A spectacle
Ignorantly conceived
The previous night.

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