So there you have an old glass blower’s window,
And behind a man who writes for love’s relief;
He hasn’t got a folder or a binder,
But would love to leave his words for all to see.
He passes days with well known rub and stone
For images that far outreach his mise;
A hurried glance appears to be his own,
But he scolds himself as he has no replies.
He loathes the opportunities of vagueness,
Chances prompted by a day in bed,
Things he can achieve with less awareness,
Imprinted in his own rolled worried head.
And as his paper separates along the edge,
And a screen appears to help him with his sight,
He no longer needs the words his mind has fetched,
As his fingers dance around the keys all night.
And however straight it seems when it is said,
And however in reality it’s not,
A greater string of skin could not instead
Replace the life his filigree has wrought.
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