Glass: A Poem

Not a dream

nor a life awoken

Not a sleep

nor a spell unbroken

But a clearing call;

of wired string

before the fall

of an infinite fling.

I ask -

Are beams of white

doomed to crack?

The shiver and smoke

signaling a heart's attack?

Yet I hear your breath

melt in with mine

drawn out and pulled

lengthening spindles' twine.

These laced fingers

do not mean to harm...

they hurt to feel -

a taught-ness steady

unlike a rubbish wheel...

A cord, this cord! Newly spun

Never knowing, not once

the ever present Divine

of our past and future's

calamatous, fiery, and final line.