This is a little piece I wrote on my 18 hour flight home.
I look at my hands
The same, who built it all,
The same, who broke it all.
I had the clay in my fist
Started molding and shaping it
What it became,
I never could see
How beautiful was it
I never could tell
As it changed
From the piece of clay
To the beautiful sculpture,
It was meant to be ,
It did weaken a few hundred times
Only to be reinforced
By these very hands
The belief I had
Made it stay.
As it grew,
It was weighed down
By these same hands.
Slowly but surely
The clay began to change.
From a part of the lovely figure,
To the sand which flowed
Right through
My very hands.
I never could see
What my hands held for me.
Still cant see
What the future has for me
Yet
I strive to try again
Knowing I would hold it strong
Only this time
It would not be a sculpture
Waiting to pass into emptiness
But become and stay
What its meant to be.
No, its just
