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Tongues of Clay

[Verse 1] Words crumble mid-sentence, dust in the throat, Promises molded, then shattered, they choke. You spoke like a prophet but the echo was hollow, Every vow fragile as tomorrow’s sorrow. Teeth grind porcelain syllables thin, Lips fracture, the lies cave in. Clay tongues crack when the kiln grows hot, The sermon dissolves, but the silence does not. I watched dialects fracture to fossils of trust, Every whisper eroded, corroded to rust. The weight of confession was brittle, obscene, Shards of intention cut holes through the scene. Your language was scaffolding built out of ash, One push and it buckled, collapsed with a crash. Clay runs to silt when the water intrudes, Your truth floods the room in dissolving hues. What remains is the rubble of speech turned to stone, A vocabulary graveyard no voice can own. Tongues of clay crumble, they scatter, they fade, And I walk through the ruins of the words you made. [Verse 2] They speak in fractures, syllables break, sentences crumble like faultlines in quake. Every vow tastes of dust on the tongue, each promise collapses as soon as it’s sung. Mouths shaped from earth, from brittle decay, their words are unstable, they rot as they sway. Every confession erodes in the rain, letters dissolving to residue, stain. They crumble mid-sentence, collapse into sand, confessions dissolve in the grip of your hand. Each vow is a vessel with cracks in its frame, it leaks out the meaning, it drowns in the shame. The choir of clay mouths keep singing off-key, their hymns are just whispers eroded by sea. Each word once eternal, now brittle, decayed, the gospel disfigured on tongues made of clay. Silence intrudes with a merciless weight, the sound of their voices corrodes into hate. Each pause is a chasm that swallows the room, a silence that echoes the shape of the tomb. You try to rebuild them, to sculpt them again, but clay once it shatters won’t mold as it bends. The fragments just scatter, they drift where they may, refusing your hands, these tongues made of clay. And still they keep speaking though nothing remains, just dust in the throat and a drought in the veins. A sermon of ruins, a hymn to decay, the fragile confessions of tongues made of clay. When the earth swallows language, when meaning corrodes, all that survives are the echoes it holds. A scripture of silence, a gospel of grey, the last word is buried on tongues made of clay.