My life like a glass pipe, blown into perfection at one time.
Detailed color runs through clean glass, a delicate solid; hoping to pass the test of time.
With time comes wear and tear. Exterior beat with heat and elements from the Earth, acting as a hearth for herbs and smoke.
Define my life by a pipe; I just might. A smooth design under swirling pigment as individual as me, yet created by someone I have never seen.
Seems a metaphor for existence.
Tough but fragile. For it while it functions near perfection.
Chips and nicks may break me, but I still function.
Sharp edged cut you, if you do like you want to.
Listen to me, grab carefully or I will cut you.
My pipe and I survive until the time of her life has passed us by.
And now, I find myself with a pile of shattered glass.
Glass coated in resin stinking of time invested into a pipe.
How raw material made what once was intact, ready to act upon request.
But like the best, we all eventually die. Pieces of us live on in sections of glass pipes and bongs.
Like personal kisses, I remember every pair of lips that kissed my pipe.
At night, in dark allies through more than one state of mind.
Passed into hand after hand.
My pride and joy from the Haight.
Couldn’t wait to use her, take her home and admire her.
Watch as I light fire to her.
She glows. She knows my smoke of choice.
Sweet and green. She gleams in the light of a match.
Alive and kicking for only two years.
The tears fell that day when she hit the tile.
All the while, preparing to take me to a higher place.
I knocked the glass to the floor, in one instant, she was no more.
In awe I scooped her up and slid her to a plastic grave.
I save her body on my shelf.
My first one, the best.
Pieces of glass to show homage to the past.
Sections of me built delicately into a new piece of art.
Broken and reborn.
Images torn by time.
Something mine, all the while changing form to fit a new phase.
The rays of hope shine into tomorrow.
No sorrow for broken glass or shattered pasts.
Smile at the chance to begin again.