The open end of the Glass never speaks, though it’s
lips are curled, capturing the essence of an angered scream, frozen in the
sands and waters of charred hands and focused eyes.
The Glass has but one expression, though It’s
insides pour to the soil, delivered without hymns or enunciation, explanation,
appreciation, representation, or what begins at a sea and holds a commune
without E Pluribus Unum, in the modern times iNation.
An iFor every word, as entertainers giggle at The Eye’s
in every word, temples of worship and hidden degrees of threes in these, but Symbols
cannot see and will not, the things held dear to This and Me. But I is Them,
and They are not I, so I say to Myself I cannot be trusted or battered or
busted, because They will never cease and this shall be infinitely true, in a
world filled with Them, Me’s, I’s, and You’s.
The tree stands strong, though splintered in winter,
and lashed in the spring, but the Devil may play and torment all things. He
dances and laughs, over broken glasses and ashes, of Those he had burned and Those
he does seek, only a mirage, a play, and portraits of bleak. Oh, suppose
without him the world would be dull, destinies fulfilled, races with
one-million tied first, no hunger or war, no disease or thirst.
The Glass could be evil but it never speaks, it
stands between the days and years, holding and pouring, both mead and beers,
and wine, and whiskey, delegating strange nights and days, mistakes to Us all,
and stories and song, of both right and wrong.
The Glass delegates to us how life will spill, though
it is the glasses content inside Me, not My own, not Thine own, a foreign
object frustrated and dormant, using Us as puppets to scream and carry out
cemented abandon, tricking Us to be as hopeless and concerning as itself, The Bastard
Glass deserves some more discerning.
