faces change when they leave the maker,
the
clay bowl holds
the brains,
the ashtray doesn't sit inside
it's collecting rain,
hear the height of there voices
breaking down the clay,
set there sights
avoiding eyes
turning stoned
and shamed
so I've been trying to burn a crop,
where they never thought Poppy's would pop
feet print in the sand are lost
sitting by the lake
©friedman27
F