He blows slowly, but with force
the bulb glows fuller in time.

Telling it it must persist,
he puts the glass on a shelf.

The ornament is just that,
and he grows tired of it.

The effort is light upon him,
but the stress is too much for some.

The best ones, placed on highest shelves,
to one day fall and shatter, more completely than the rest.

Holding each gossamer-gilt item like a child,
he is tender and feels love, but without perpetuity.

Its alit in his eye each moment it's conceived,
and after forgotten or impugned, the love.

To love his art is important, as it loves him,
but incomplete in reckoning their lives.

One's just a glass bulb, sitting on a shelf,
the other a man who makes them.

They can never hold a light to time,
darkened their love's door is by impermanence.

Graying the light of the bulbs reflection,
the bulbs cannot see how he walks in doors and halls.

His dimensionality is a mask,
setting himself above in erudition.

Tossed and caught, the bulbs are his toys,
a fire burns in his eyes, despicable, humane.

Golden moments are hollowed out with spite,
virgin pools sullied with disenchanted clouds.

What a cruel master, quelling his thirst,
telling himself it is beauteous creation
knowing really it is a farce and cruel,
leading his works past insignificance,
believing his own twisting ethos,
only later to fall back in disillusionment.