Sadly this clay
subjected to time
reveals its integral
thin shell broken,
scraped, bruised by days
which proceeded roughly
in innocence.

From a distance you ask
whether it is porcelain
or not — my thin shell.
I cry and the hurt
you see on my face
was painted there by you.
You made fun of
the curve of my body.

Even were I but mud
shaped by a fool in
his heaven,
no less for that today
would I have walked
or crawled, dragging
this old flesh home.
One more mile,
one more day.

The wars that we engage in
are just our own deafness,
banging on each other
trying to get in.