Twenty Little Poems...Or Something like That.

My blood is the glass.

It tastes like cold spring
I can hear its volume
though see it, I
have not.
as the smell
rushes by
and my fingers graze
the wounds.

With Ezekiel
watching a dream fade
with blood and famine
he cries, "Jerusalem!"

Cabes, glass flowing,
watches the wreck
of the west.

I am blessed
with no blood
for glass.

Standing there, wonder
drifts through the wind
enamored at the unwreckable
nature of my west.

Skullduggery, a whispered wind
wanders
through my spring of life.

because my night falls,
the ones loved
grow derisive.

"The canyon being
a mile deep
you must not attempt
the whole trip,
we all know you can't."

The words work
as warm waves
of ambition die within.

"Fall to your face,
take in the sky of dirt."
words work.

And I will fly
until falling deems
itself wonderful.

Praise falling
we all will
fearing the dream
of flying.

"There is a fine line
between falling
and flying"
I shout in reply,
words echoed
by Craig Minowa.

Siente el viento de gran vidrio!

Finally the glass,
not blood,
answers, "never wake
without hope."

Falling a mile deep
the glass wind
and blood
seep toward a waking
of hope.