The plotter

With each turns the mould moved,

Varied potter shaped the clay differently.

But with every turn, the pot implored

And knew that it’s the pot which withstood it all,

Leaving room for all the changes being made.

Here, is it the smartness of the potter or the plot of thy pot.

The Abjection.

Sheer silence rummaging the desolate void,

With each footstep looming towards the sunless lands.

Insuperable high walls stifling with turning tides,

Making the dawn and dusk feel arduous and obscure.

Slipping in and out, with each moment away from self,

The boundless sea of distraught stormed her empty auge.