clay

with no fear or anticipation of tomorrow, todays only
just pass by

it's only the wrinkles that make you you and i, i
on the foreheads

or in the fabrics of time, bringing one and one closer
or farther apart

thankfully without a string that ties our hands we mold
the clay on the wheel

the way it should be, in the end we only see smears
of wet clay on hands

without glass panes, windows still look like they got
clear glass panes in between

invisibly sitting quietly in between this side and that
or the absence of it