To have no control
Of the mold
Letting hands take
The torso
The legs
The buttocks
The ears and the
Eyes

I transform
By their hands or
Mine?

A passing train whispers
Mortal temptation
A simple childish step
And I am old news
And unnecessary tears
We grow so sentimental
When death occurs
To say goodbye is a
Very human tradition

Uphill do I notice a struggle
Or is it downhill that relief is granted?
Are either truly a hardship
Or is the entirety of it so?
Which way to turn to at this age?
Always running to another stage.
The same breath pours out from me gray
A friend breaks it off after four years
And she has very little to say
I can't blame her after a stab like that
Some boys aren't meant to stay in love

And though these invisible hands
Are unseen as I say
I still feel them, prodding, kneading,
Controlling me
There are many hands at work for all of us
Which ones do you feel at night, in the day,
At the table, when your lover is away?
Are these the fingers of fate or of destiny, or
Are they revealing to be one's own insecurities?
A red meat wagon whistles by and
My girl, my lady, my blueberry pie
Asks, "When we will have breakfast and why?"

I tell her, "There is no such thing as time for us
Because it is just so ****** vast. To see time is normal
And to feel time is too, but to be in time, live in time,
Is the constant push to merge with the present."
Insanity in an uncle and a dead priest on the road
A burning building smiles while the unclaimed family
Goes forth on an empty mile. Our trials
Our misfortunes are the hands that bind and mold us.

Be the clay
On the pedestal
But never
Harden
Never dry
Stay moist
Stay wet

Never be afraid to change
And live the next day
Another way.