There’s been a want in me for molding clay,
Ever since a cold shadow settled in;
And stole what ashen form you had away
From my taut entwined arms and tongue within.
My bloodied nails could not hold on to you,
Forever your blissful youth barring,
Restraining my urges in ways you knew,
And encouraging them in thick throbbing.
The hardship of this love and of the rush
That came with sculpting your heart into shards,
An art form that I loved much as your lush
And burbling breaths stunted as you’re marrred:
Beautiful and gruesome and growing dearth,
Frothing and forming rivulets from your firth.
Author Notes: Let me know what you think! A short poem I had to write for school :)