Clots of Reddish Clay

Clots of reddish clay,
Mouthed in its vent;
Tender swooning play,
Decreasing and augment.
Morning coming back,
Beneath the milky ways;
Beaconing night black,
With the brighter days.

Clots of darkish society,
Driving its rim's heart;
Giving none opportunity,
Only the fulsome fart.
Black as a black can be,
Nothing in musky vessel;
Seeing not forests for a tree,
Critical eyes of a sessile.

Clots of wind driven theme,
Why has hope been robed;
What is there only beseem,
Nothing of thoughtways probed.
Morning coming back,
What will the others hold;
Empty and full of its lack,
Rediscovered any untold.