By: The Observer
Life is clay beneath raw-knuckled hands.
torn from earth, spun by restless will.
Dawn spills amber; dusk bleeds violet.
The kiln burns on – choices baked to the bone.
The mind is a compass, never a map.
pointing toward horizons that retreat.
You run the alleys, stone by stone.
feet memorising fault lines and walls as rails.
No soft hope, no idle wait
You forge on morning’s anvil alone.
Hope is ember, but action breathes.
Oxygen to flame: promise to self.
Life is a fortress breached by despair.
loss’s trebuchet, regret’s manoeuvres
Yet you rise, weaponed by name and love.
A soldier shaping clay, defending sky.
Beautiful piece