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Poem

Glazed ceramic, spun with hands
with tender finger prints imbed
somewhere from the hills of Spain
given to us when we wed
Signed in marker on the bottom
brushed in dust and gold
holds our trinkets of disaster
crystal cracked and cold
There's that time we strung each other
ice glass beads on threaded wind
and that time we threw one another
bouncing back and forth again
What about when our eyes were blinded
wandering around in the dark for days
or all the grease we drenched on wheels
to clog up the cogs in a thousand ways
More to be said, just not worth saying
Held in the chocolate jar and sealed
Somewhere in Spain there's a lady still spinning
these jars in ceramic, dynamic, congealed
Ours we will smash in the fire one day
freeing the bruises in smoke to the sky
We will laugh silly and send our disasters
spiraling upward,  toward the heavens they'll fly...

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