Shaped By Clay Poem by Unic Cjonr

I do not slumber my finger to your numbers, never the thought of a mere linger - I keep my fraction to my bones, where i am the square to my roots - I spit to swallow, so my bird can wear a skirt, so i may be dressed for success - The chain around my leg, will link away before the bullet aimed to my head - So instead, what was written was the letter to what was said -
Correct me, before i turn to wrong, my rails are made of nails - My life shaped, molded by the play in clay, my grey of night fades to fake by day - The shade by which my shadow stalks, breaks around the corner where silence talks.