glass-blower

small hand, big hand, held tightly whilst a little nose is flattened by glass watching glass being reborn; bubbling balloons of fragility blossom out of nothing to become objects of fancy, flying horses, spiders' webs drizzled with ruby dew, fish-shaped glass, distorting reflections somewhat like diction intended to dazzle which creates a non-existent self from shards of society's mirror. We are who they are. Still teetering on the cusp.