The Potters Pots

Warm clay wrapped around chilled flesh,

to take the fear, to mold,

to mold the way that souls do.

They immerse.

They surround.

They warm.

Hair,

long hair

wraps around clay,

wraps around warmth.

God!

That I could pull you past clay!

That I could move you closer than close,

closer than words,

closer than thought,

as close as God.

Love. 

Adore

Making love out of music

Making talk out of taste

Making skin out of Teflon

Leave nothing to waste.

Waste.

Uncomfortable

…and it won’t be easy

my dear;

to forgive yourself;

to let your scars lie still

and not awaken the wounds

of demons past.

Let me hold you dear.

Let me hold them down;

those demon scars.

They mottle your flesh like storms.

They speak!

Oh God they speak…

I’ll never let her touch you again.