There was clay in the ground I clawed through
Pulling myself back to the surface
To sit in a rainstorm I longed for years to feel again
And I began to shape the clay
Caught in a fever dream aching to be translated
Forms out of black nothing that eat away at reason—
Heed the call of the gazing void
Until thoughts ride out to a battle that was lost long ago

Earth gave way to my touch
Bending with a mind sweeping through the underground
Past the ransacked prison I left in ashes
Fingers alive with cold fire
And memory of the hell they once knew
Only when it fell finished from my hands did I look down
At the face of my creation
And saw my own eyes gazing up at me

—

Photo is from Pexels, though I couldn’t find the original photographer’s name.

Something is telling me I need to rewatch Andrei Rublev…