Guess I’ll melt my bones
and tendons in the fire;
smoking, hour after hour,
down to calcium
and silhouette of sin.
Where once the finish line
of arrogance and ego
became humility and,
so traceable on the parchment paper,
hummed,
over and over.
The echo.
The fumes.
The hops.
The brine.
The grain.
The cork.
The glass.
Bottles are shifting
and brought ready to break.
I can hear them,
cracking in the furnace,
the kiln.
Melting into a new form,
a bending pliable mold.
I’ll twist the rod,
you’ll blow in the tube.
Chihuly will be jealous.
Competing art shows
coming on soon.
All Writing.Com images are copyrighted and may not be copied / modified in any way. All other brand names & trademarks are owned by their respective companies.
Generated in 0.05 seconds at 10:38am on Nov 05, 2024 via server WEBX1.