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Poem

At the beginning, your thoughts are like fresh clay,
malleable and soft to the touch, shaped by the hands of your early desires,
like a canvas painted with dreams dancing under the morning light.
As time passes, the clay hardens,
fired by the heat of failure, cooled by the chill of loss,
and in that hardening, it finds its true form,
a form that will endure through storms and sun,
through hands that try to reshape it again and again,
like a blind sculptor attempting to redefine time-worn marble.
In the depths of the soul, these thoughts become rocky landscapes,
where memories settle like autumn leaves on cold ground,
and in every crack of the hardened clay, a story hides,
a whisper of the past reverberating in the silence of the present.
So, in the flow of consciousness, you continue to walk this land,
where each step brings echoes of desires and losses,
seeking in every rigid form a trace of warmth,
a memory of the softness from the beginning,
in a never-ending journey through the uncharted maps of your thoughts.

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