The older woman defines what is in front me.
She breaks and cracks the mold placing me feet in red clay.
After I entered the room she sees me like old furniture in dark corners.
Ready to go but needs filling up some space matted with dried red clay.
I was the pendant sticking to her skin that would remind her it’s dull.
I was her old pin.
Her mistakes were big elephants she ignored.
The same ones that talked to me.
My burning runs on a skim and doesn’t stop when I get here.
Left then right and pours when I bend, the gift of life from the source the never let me begin.
She wrapped me up in wraps wet with reap and sow.
She branded my existence with burning brew masking her signature.
She never allow me to satisfy my thirst for blame and source.
I wake up to empty rooms cluttered with paths leading to clay.
I pace and walk through each day into a smaller door.
Narrow escapes wont’ allow me to make my memory come alive.
Every dusty mark is blown away by wind.
My muddy marks were trampled by the ones trying to find what might have been.
The hollers the laughs I see more with the slits closed.
I don’t want to have the and tote when it shall come.
It will be my new, my precious world my own.
I will still see cluttered nothings in the place of my new home.
Branded with the name of nothing passed onto a knowledge unknown.
All I wanted was to see the man behind me who’s name I fit to own.
Kicking sand with peddles catching chalk lines of thread against the boot.
Looking up I feel the heat and see grass below and shoes removed.
There is no way I will create my own mold.
Handed down birth rights are greeted next in line.
Mine was folded and used with a name on the collar that didn’t fit mine.
My heart responded to the ones that stood straight up at me.
Their little noses twitched and mirrored apart of me.
My wanted to flutter but it gasped way back to sea.
Every time they laughed my smile would crack and blood would trickle reminding me.