Sunday, August 22, 2021

Clay

Are we at the end
Or at the start?
Neither and both I suppose
Stalling in some strange middle part

I want to form
The perfect thing to say
But life's not perfect
And words aren't clay

I suppose that means something
I suppose I should know
What's going on at this point
But there's so much space to grow

Because I'm not That now
What I thought I would be
Or who I was back then
I'm still finding me

Doubt I'll ever stop
Does anyone, I wonder?
Aren't we all volatile shapes
Constantly forming whilst being torn asunder 

And all those little things
That terrified me at the start 
Are what I'll miss the most
Transitioning into this next middle part

And all the hard things
I told myself wouldn't last
Are things I'm not ready
To let slip into the past

Because it was just two short
Yet extensive years ago
That I was so nervous 
And trying not to let it show

And now . . . I'm just here
Letting it all sink in
Not quite ready for an end
But more than ready to begin

Not quite knowing who I am
Uncertain who I will be
But content with the knowledge
That I like forming me

So as we come to a close
And as we come to a start
I'll move onward
Roaming through this next strange middle part

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