Greener | A Collection of Poems

3 || Clay

It's quiet here.
Let me show you around,
but first you must promise
not to tell anyone.

After all,
I come here to get away.

I'm quite proud of them
the walls, I mean.

Nothing gets in;
nothing gets out.

Nothing to lose, or hurt me.
Just point to a brick

and I'll tell you
which nickname,
taunt,

or "joke"

it's made from.
I remember them all.

Clay doesn't burn
and neither do memories.

I'm sorry for the mess.
There was a storm last night,
- I find that they seem to happen often.

It came through in a fury,
rattling the windows and doors,
flooding the basement,
and beckoning the beasts
to come upstairs.

Come upstairs.

I do my best
to keep them docile,
to keep them satisfied.

It's quiet here,
most nights at least.

But there are times when the howling
doesn't stop.

It's odd,
the relationships we form
with our demons.

Do we feed them to keep them tame?
Or because
it has become all that we know?

Sticks and stones
were never an affinity.

They feed on the words.
They feed on the clay.

A.E
02.26.2017