the end of this clay
I’m not giving up anytime soon.
My hands are tired, but my heart still burns.
This clay listens when no one else does,
It holds my silence, my dreams, my scars.
Sometimes it cracks, just like me,
But I press on, shaping what I feel.
One day it will speak for me,
And maybe then, I’ll rest.
But not yet—
I must see the end of this clay.
S