I am a Shabti,
handmade by me,
commissioned by others.
I formed this shell
from their expectations,
their opinions thrust upon me.
I lost my voice, my flesh, my blood,
wandering aimlessly within myself.
Myself? No,
this mud shell is but a prison.
I am no Shabti,
not made from weakened clay,
I shall recall myself,
emerge from the Duat.
I am stronger, braver, bigger,
crushing this Shabti,
this image caging me in.
I adhere no expectations,
but only my own anew.
Finding my voice, my Ba and Rem,
new courage to break this shell.
(9-11-07-2015)
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