Cruel misapprehension, you choose the shape

and cast of this wet clay in your hands, as the wheel

ever spins

Tempered in granite, this fired shell hardens

into the scarred shield of your deeds, and the dark

decisions within

Settle hidden in suspension, unseen in banded strata

awaiting death’s weary arrival, the journey’s repast

to close you out

We blind grievers raise you high, honoring all

you never were and what rots sealed inside follows you

to the grave

I stand now among the mourners, displeased

by my suspicions as the vessel’s dust drifts --

oh how I despise funerals.

The Secrets of Clay

Panith Fanal

(BH)