Ryan David Orr



She made him out of clay

Strong hands shaping bone

Until he stood up on his own.

Until the darkness she'd known

Was held firmly at bay.

Until he walked outside

With his youthful binds untied

Where the saint and the sinner reside

In the mad arms of the day.

There's a bigger plan, they always say.

Yet he struggles just to keep in mind

The beauty in the truth we find.

Are we callously left behind?

Or knaves all in a play?

She shimmers now in moonbeams;

He waits for her voice in dreams.

A sound so elusive, it seems,

To resign him to the clay...