QUOTE : Cruel misapprehension, you choose the shape<br />and cast of this wey clay in your hands, as the wheel<br />ever spins<br /><br />Tempered in granite, this fired shell hardens<br />into the scarred shield of your deeds, and the dark<br />decisions within<br /><br />Settle hidden in suspension, unseen in banded strata<br />awaiting death's weary arrival, the journey's repast<br />to close you out<br /><br />We blind grievers rise you high, honouring all<br />you never were and what rots sealed inside follows you<br />to the grave<br /><br />I stand now among the mourners, displeased<br />by my suspicions as the vessel's dust drifts—<br />oh how I despise funerals.<br /><br /><i>The Secrets of Clay</i><br />Panith Fanal