Journal

Your fingers gently wrap around the searing edges

The gaps opening in the once whole urn

Looking in on life and love, hoping it was your turn

But it fractured, smashed by wayward hands

And feet, watched over always – from a distance

Watched and occasionally polished

Now it’s broken – beyond repair

And no glue can fix these holes

These cracked edges, the faded paint

The lost resemblance to anything worthy

The grating ceramic stings the spine

As you watch it tear itself from itself

Instigated by gravity, but finished by reluctance

And relief, Ornaments survive on shelves

But the sentiment remains hidden, forgotten

Dismissed.

Pushing my fingers into the bowl

Kneading the thick dough

The pulsing ingredients emanate negativity

Angry throes painfully squash the diminutive plasticine

The yellow moulds rise, a miniature vacuum leaving nothing

Nothing, but empty space

The miniature loaf, a morsel of misery

Moulded in moments, the vessel of delivery

Empty and free, the beatings relinquish suffering

Moving the form about the bowl, the see through arena

Of pain and suffering

Left to soothe for moments in the heat

Raising it’s head, carefully – watchful

Its insides inflate, feeling free

But fear flattens the fool, lifted away

Torture proceeds, dropped painfully

Onto the side, the furnace opens

Before caged, fallen into fire

Heat transpires to scorch, too hot to blister

But burning, consciousness dissolves in the blaze

One loaf: misery entombed

A sharp corner shatters the still silence

The surface trembles and jerks

Falling away, out from shock

The tears loosen the glue

All falling down - open to view

The masked morsel of identity revealed

Reviled but held accountable, there

For those to see – the truth of what is

Or shall be, of who and what – the why

Or how

The cluttered remains of hidden identities,

Silver slivers shine solemnly, glittering

Golden forms broken by solid means

Bricked up no longer, stone breaks

Glass, glass no longer, shiny no longer

New, no more – tragic, aged but still

Real, in fact – much more real than ever

Known and seen