The bowl shaped by my own hand

Slips from my fingers and falls

To the cold stone tiles

Where as night follows day

It shatters

Into a thousand willing fragments


The eternal angel in his lofty spire

Shrugs with indifference

As my bowl and its shards

Are frozen together forever

Different no more

Now spirit is broken


The artist seeks extension

By turning his thoughts to solids

That they may escape the worm

But all must perish

In the jaws of the cosmos

Churning, churning


In the southern lands the Aonikenk knew

That on his final day

All that he had would be burned

His name never spoken again

Yet for this

His time was sweet


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