4d
Mud that used to be soft and warm,
Easily molding with the environment and moving with the seasons,
Now encases my bare feet in memory.
No longer the familiar warm, lovely gooey feeling I tie to what is so like Clay it can’t be anything else…
The mud has frozen to my skin,
Eating into my equally frozen flesh as I’m locked in place.
Forever staring at the grave of what we used to be.
Mud pies held countless hours of my childhood,
Images of me and brother slaving in the wet sludge,
Mixing the warm goo with outstretched fingers to feel on every inch of skin.
The memory now branded in my brain, a hot reminder of what I used to be.
The sun woke for long hours, dazzling us in her scorching prayer,
And mud that was forever interchanging solidified into my favourite form…
Clay.
It’s been two years since I first saw Clay, in all his natural beauty sitting in secret on the beach.
A secret I had yet to discover.
Trial and error,
Mistake after mistake,
Failure and misfortune,
Then finally…
The perfect recipe fell into my lap;
And so I set about following every instruction,
Bending and twisting my own morals and rules to accommodate.
Bruises covered my heart and veins,
But sitting before me was a breathtaking piece of ruby red heart-shaped Clay.
Mud filled memories forgotten,
I channeled every ounce of energy into pottery.
Priorities became disregarded as they inevitably got locked into an abandoned box,
A pattern…
A cycle…
This I cannot deny.
Clay became my world.
My everything.
The reason I breathed, ate, showered…
Was all to keep that shiny heart-shaped piece of Clay perfectly mine.
But I dropped it.
Once,
Twice,
Thrice.
I keep dropping it.
Glue becomes my best friend,
Tape a sidekick I couldn’t live without.
And my beautiful pottery is shattered.
Once,
Twice,
Thrice.
I keep repairing it,
Slaving away after every chess match I always seem to lose.
But I keep gluing broken pieces together,
Pressing tape against the ruby exterior.
Mud used to create a slippery slide that could make you glide through the grass as freely as a wild animal.
Returning home with mud-water soaked pants and boots told mother you had fun,
And challenged you to get through the house without leaving any traces.
Mud was the exciting, kind and fun cousin.
I once had the recipe in my hands,
The loving product in my embrace,
Something I had dreamed of so.
But along the way of discovering and loving Clay,
Inevitably I excluded everything I have known and loved,
And now I’m trapped in the frozen mounds of mud that force me to stare at our grave where a million tiny, red shards spew the grass infront of our headstone.
Easily molding with the environment and moving with the seasons,
Now encases my bare feet in memory.
No longer the familiar warm, lovely gooey feeling I tie to what is so like Clay it can’t be anything else…
The mud has frozen to my skin,
Eating into my equally frozen flesh as I’m locked in place.
Forever staring at the grave of what we used to be.
Mud pies held countless hours of my childhood,
Images of me and brother slaving in the wet sludge,
Mixing the warm goo with outstretched fingers to feel on every inch of skin.
The memory now branded in my brain, a hot reminder of what I used to be.
The sun woke for long hours, dazzling us in her scorching prayer,
And mud that was forever interchanging solidified into my favourite form…
Clay.
It’s been two years since I first saw Clay, in all his natural beauty sitting in secret on the beach.
A secret I had yet to discover.
Trial and error,
Mistake after mistake,
Failure and misfortune,
Then finally…
The perfect recipe fell into my lap;
And so I set about following every instruction,
Bending and twisting my own morals and rules to accommodate.
Bruises covered my heart and veins,
But sitting before me was a breathtaking piece of ruby red heart-shaped Clay.
Mud filled memories forgotten,
I channeled every ounce of energy into pottery.
Priorities became disregarded as they inevitably got locked into an abandoned box,
A pattern…
A cycle…
This I cannot deny.
Clay became my world.
My everything.
The reason I breathed, ate, showered…
Was all to keep that shiny heart-shaped piece of Clay perfectly mine.
But I dropped it.
Once,
Twice,
Thrice.
I keep dropping it.
Glue becomes my best friend,
Tape a sidekick I couldn’t live without.
And my beautiful pottery is shattered.
Once,
Twice,
Thrice.
I keep repairing it,
Slaving away after every chess match I always seem to lose.
But I keep gluing broken pieces together,
Pressing tape against the ruby exterior.
Mud used to create a slippery slide that could make you glide through the grass as freely as a wild animal.
Returning home with mud-water soaked pants and boots told mother you had fun,
And challenged you to get through the house without leaving any traces.
Mud was the exciting, kind and fun cousin.
I once had the recipe in my hands,
The loving product in my embrace,
Something I had dreamed of so.
But along the way of discovering and loving Clay,
Inevitably I excluded everything I have known and loved,
And now I’m trapped in the frozen mounds of mud that force me to stare at our grave where a million tiny, red shards spew the grass infront of our headstone.
