Glassware

She is molten glass. 

He feeds her to the flame - 

Kneading, testing her malleability. He is the artisan of 

Her shape, 

A rough 

Hand, 

Roughly 

Splitting, twisting 

Mending and twining, reforming 

This half-formed thing of her. 

In the heat, her essence writhes and blends As it stretches to meet his vision. She glimpses herself 

In her maker’s 

Eyes, 

Swelled with firelight. 

Is she yet beautiful?