Death drops like a ball peen hammer on plate glass
soft sloping angles sit jagged at last
fallen and silent
inert and cold
as the sythe man's blade that death's hands hold.
It is hard to believe glass came from the shore
shards ground through eons, silica, minerals and ore
sifted and pounded
silt and stone
molten to crystal
inscribed on a pistol
chambers ablaze
cacophony ornate
shot from the hip, shatters the plate
Bursting and spitting, free at last?
Not to those who wait, but only those who last.
Plunged into darkness, the temple has closed,
soul's windows shattered and shaken,
allowing weather, or the frying smell of bacon,
to come and go as they please.
Molten to crystal, but not conversely.
Wakes in the frigid crucible of frigid currents
and loud torrents
battered and beaten
drifting and lifting
until gleaned, either by fire or oyster
mulled over and damp, calcified and strong
spine and a song
a pearl of wisdom
cradled in an open palm
soft sloping convergence of flesh and bone
glinting and translucent
sprawling and placid
free but never alone.
