Blurred Afternoon

The diner window, smeared with greasy handprints,

catches the dying light like scattered hints.

A rock hits—a dull thud, a crack in the glaze,

distorting the gold in the fading haze.

Sunlight spills through grime and smears,

blurring edges like tears caught in years.

Inside, shadows stretch and fold,

fading stories that sunlight can’t hold.

This glass is a lens dulled by neglect,

filtering moments I wish I’d protect.

A world half-seen through filth and stain,

a broken glow in a blurred afternoon’s reign.