Firing through the night
exhausting fight with bone cold
Splitting slivers from the whole
Catching a vein and running wide
a ladder Connecting now to later
Splitting time down the middle
Missing rungs from the bottom
Finding another way.
The silence of waiting, waiting
for the clay to dry out a little more
Waiting for messages and images to work their way out of wrinkles around our eyes and lengthen our noses
As we lay awake lying to ourselves about the stories that brought us to this moment
The one that we give credit to everyone else for creating for us.
Broken eyes and teeth cut our fingers deep.
Blank stares reflecting when eyes were more than just seeing, but actually being used for a purpose.
Even a piss pot of exquisite terribleness is still more fulfilled than the ghosts of vessels broken looking out blankly as they stick out as empty decorative tradition that no one cares for.
The many different faces throughout my life that move across the clay surface until they are eventually frozen solid in dry clay.
