Make

Life through craft. At best, not quite
Life. At worst, life. Earth, clay, mud,

Dust, bone, tears, blood. Shapes and sparks,
Blown wind, breathed fire, waved wands, spells—

We name the tools, the means, force,
But the tale comes back to haunt

You the same way each time—how
Could you see a way to make

A kind of life with your grace,
Your breath, your pulse, and your ache

To be more that would not be
Just as much of a sad mess,

Prone to kill, to cry, to seek
A war on such gods as it

Could blame things turned out like this?
Words hide the myth words live this.