in the beginning, this was my mind:
a grey slab of clay.
it spun smoothly; the surface immaculate.
in my first years of life, this is what happened:
molding the clay, forming impressions and bumps; shining, embossed
as the clock ticked on, the slab morphed accordingly:
scratches and pits and dents.
made by failed goals and sleeping while being awake; patterns like those made by seismographs.
the biggest molder of all, are these handful of letters:
what are tears and loss compared to words and language.
they turn this battered mold into a vessel vibrating with life; i leave a relic in my wake.