We sculpt clay into the things
we cannot force our bodies into
we string the alphabet
into stories we are afraid to live
we paint with colors we cannot see
and we ignore the music
inside the beat of our hearts

as we forget what it means to live
we muse on what was
once beautiful about being alive
and forget our thoughts
as we stare emptily to the sky

and the night swallows the day
and the day murders the night
and prayers become graveyards
for dead gods
and our beds become coffins
for dreams

round and round the clay
of the earth spins
and slips through our fingers
as time is something we waste
and our reflection
is a ghost of once was
and what could be

if we could only remember
who we were before
we became prisoners inside
our own minds and found shame
in the shape of our flesh

before we needed the alphabet
to speak of love
and metaphors to hide behind
and fairy tales to mend our wounds

back when the music
inside the beat of our hearts
was all we needed
to know that we were beautiful