moulding the clay

in an unexpected moment you, the source

and content of my being, the providence
dumped into my hand a lump, a handful
of clay to mould, to squeeze into my soul,

with your intent to realign my finger

and my voice to your purpose littered
in a bird with wings free to fly away
breathing a breath of rebellion to rebel,
 
with my pain and pleasures now i clean
a baby’s bum, carry a child, run behind a teen
and beyond, my sculpting a living being
in which is hidden the trends of my doing

henry victor     29.04.2013