Claykind

A melange of two poems We are But Clay and To Yeats We are but Clay, Soon to crumble to dust, fade 'way- After the Cold Hand's call And the dead bells' knell We are no more than memories- Slowly fading to oblivion As vicious Clay clash like titans Against the Weaver of Clay strands The centre cannot hold There! The Dwelling gathers mold- Left to its doom, violated by scavengers Who like Judas peck their Mason. O Spirit! If you were here to behold Nations a-throat, men in scuffle. O Yeats! If you beheld our Clay- Setting in the East, back to Dust. There weeps the knell Here forth from Clay steps hell Given Breathe by Clay’s cupidity- Doom weighs over Claykind The latter, like Jezebel, is but having a make-up! Behold the mask, behold the impostors! Claykind veiled to conceal scalding faces: No mourning veils, no remorse As Clay take another shape! But Claykind should not forget That there is but a Titan In Whose entangling net We, like strange flu are patiently analyzed.