Comfort and Mud

Alright! So - here is some poetry that I've come up with. These are two I wrote yesterday.

Comfort

You are buttered menthol

to my throat raw from screaming.

Your hands thrust my arms 

above my head - clasped -

your mouth closes tight

on my lips - stops

the sound from leaking out;

swallow it whole,

and make me quiet.

Mud

We're all made of mud, I think.

How else to explain it?

Sticky, messy lives. 

Gritty, thrown together, not planned -

and the scientists always say

the key to life is water, don't they?

We're churned, and mixed and thrown together;

We're dirty and horrible and get in

each other's noses, smeared

on each other's skin.

Sometimes trodden upon, and sometimes,

in wiser hands than my own

built into something beautiful,

fired in a kiln to last.

But we dry up, and we crack - when theat

essence of life, water, runs dry - we crack

and find it hard to move. Aching bones

arthritic fingers stretch, creaking towards

muddier times so that the dry-sore skin

might be quenched.

But it isn't so easy as metaphor.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust and I

want to go back to mud.