Social Strata

Age fragments into experience like reclaimed clay

Firing soda and salt into some mundane mana 

And creating hairline fractures that cause decay

To knead the liquid crop of upper and lower strata

Encompassed by asteroids and massive moths

Off to the mines they go to search for earthenware

For its silk is an ore that coils like warlock’s hair

And its gloss and gleam could coerce like a prayer  

These moths extrude ash of three sacred rivers

Made out of a mix of blood, milk, and wine 

Veins of terracotta circulate its earthenworks

To be forged into ingot and then into red twine 

The grand guardians of the grove then exclaim 

That the blood is meant to cleanse yet coagulate 

That the milk is meant to cleanse yet curdle 

And the wine is meant to cleanse yet intoxicate

Their ceramic might drip with shino and celadon 

Having taken the darkened clay from their wheels

Their legacy may not be real but it lasts perpetually 

As consciousness erodes shadow and heals

Don’t go between pulling and putting up walls 

Justifying the verdant slip like a complete fool 

Hands ache and bruise as hearts oxidize til death 

Advocating usage of not just any ordinary pin tool 

So be less brittle within the holy porcelain kiln 

Set your soul down on the slab and cover it in slip

Reinforce with silk, unswayed by shame and guilt,

And back off to the liquid belt via solar sail ship  

© Niklen 9/1/26