The Gods of Creation and Destruction

The potter's hands
riven from earthen textures
washing red clays off,
those crinkles laid into her palms
the geometric weatherings of years
of building and creation.
The warm baked ground outside is her model
the hills and river beds her source.
The living heart transplanted into art.

Broken bottles and shattered windows
inset into crumpled car doors
forgotten bylanes by asbestos shacks
and a maze of dead-ends for the child.
This isn't about material poverty,
but about emptiness of mind,
about the lack of blue nectar filling those cracked, chapped minutes
the lack of that soul-enhancing food,
and the child feels this, in his teeth
in the inability to cry.
I feel the violence rise,
like a vengeful sun,
turning its gaze on a world turning away in fear.

I need to switch off soon,
the answer lies in stillness.