Sadly this clay subjected to time reveals its integral weaknesses, thin shell broken, scraped, bruised by days which proceeded roughly in innocence. From a distance you ask whether it is porcelain or not — my thin shell. I cry and the hurt you see on my face was painted there by you. You made fun of the curve of my body. Even were I but mud shaped by a fool in his heaven, no less for that today would I have walked or crawled, dragging this old flesh home. One more mile, one more day. The wars that we engage in are just our own deafness, banging on each other trying to get in.