Lies From The Mold

A New View


As if I was made of moldable

clay and fashioned easy with lying

hands and perditioned mouths.

My head hurts, my ears do not

believe what I heard before

the lies began.


Shapes take place when the mold

holds. Bless the thrown clay, bless

wet hands, bless the fire and the glaze.

I had no warning that clay

could become art and gleaming.


Trust came so simply. It arrived 

from the art store in cellophone wrap

warm and soft, ready to become

what hands want it to become.

Self-sculpted, I used to be made

of light and oxygen. I ask, why

does clay have to be at its core

a cool and malleable gray?







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Alistar.B.Usher's picture


I felt like after the comment you left me I would return the favour.

Very nice job I very much liked the last bit, also nice POV it left much to be pondered,good job.

I like how you asked questions in your poem, it added an element of depth to the whole piece.

Alistar.B.Usher's picture


 I see also we are both from Michigan. I wonder how close we are to each other

allets's picture

Thank You

for reading my work. - slc