Humans are just chunks of clay,
they're soft and malleable when you just take them out.
They form with just the gentlest pokes,
but not staying that way.
As they age, the time not moist,
they harden as the humans grow.
And when adulthood comes around,
they're fired in the kiln and painted.
They way they looked, how they were
shaped, is now set in clay for eternity,
until the final day. But while some don't
make it to the kiln are fully blessed,
for the kiln makes thing permanent,
never ever changing. But because
they are not fired, they still have a
chance to understand life.
YOU ARE READING
My Poems
PoetryPoems I've written when the muse strikes~ All these poems are original, and an expression of how I felt at the moment. Quite a few of these are old, and many were posted on Gaia on my account.
