In The Mud

In form, we are but mud,

smoothed and shaped,

mixed and churned,

blended into existence by

natural and unnatural forces.

Mud; heated and cooled next

to an enormous nuclear ball,

hardened and wilted, eroded,

molten and changed, in the image

of and by the whims of the universe.

We are but mud, a soupy mix,

stirred together in a puddle,

coalescing into the rock and mortar,

the sand and ash, of an unforgiving

world designed to test our muddy hearts.

It is the same mud for us all,

the same dirt, the same sticks and

stones, the same stardust, the same

wretched curses of time, erosion and

shifts.

It is the soil that we sprouted,

of which we will return, that

blood spills upon, that absorbs

us and distributes to the next tributary

of hereditary.

We are molded by older hands,

muddy clay that is smacked, cut, stacked, shaved,

turned and told that we are special,

unique and that our production was

important.

A vessel of hardened mud, delicately

filled to breaking, yet holding its form,

cracking and chipping ever so slightly,

along the way, repaired and sealed

with patience. All mud. All the time.

All the same mud.