i am the clay

A piece of clay
Amorphous mass

Clunky hands
Came to carver
They left without
Licking into a shape


One-eyed sculptures
Couldn’t hear the pain
Of an captive -fire
In a mis-shapen clay

Soul’s dim voice
couldn’t find a say
to draw the soma
and show the way

carvers took her
and shape a body
unlike the one
the clay was made for

a dried clay crying
for her malformed soma
Alone in a dark room
Waiting in a coma



Familiar sound
of steps coming closer
First time they are comings
Or always were there?

The wet fingers touch her
They know where to go
Their moisture wakes
foreshorten desires

Her thirstiness is frighting
the attraction is strong
She lets, she defies
around the spot of release

The fingers are touching
The clay turns wet
Wants to surrender
but “ifs” blocking her

“i want You to be my Sculptor
to take me in Your hands
to carver my clay
my soul and my soma”


She lets, she defies
What if he doesn’t want ?
She lets, she defies
around the spot