Posted in stream of consciousness

Imperfect Clay

We are,
They say,
Made of clay.
Astral mud
And dusty stars,
Or
Heavy red
Riverbank soul
Farmed from the heart
Of what we
Truly are.
Molded into
What we wish
To be.
An image of god
Or golden calf,
Imperfect clay
Are we.

Author:

Letters from inside my head

Why not tell me what you think ...

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.