Come to Bury

Tom-tom was full of life,
too full, sadly, you could say.
Nobody knew the details,
but at some point in the process
he had received a sharp blow
that left a crack in his head
which meant he could not hold back,
he would just pour and pour words out,
every trivial sherd and dun thought.
I don't think he even enjoyed it
his eyes as glazed over as yours.
I suppose there's a stop to him now
but I feel he's still spinning, mouth wide.
When his logorrhea got too bad
he was banished to the muddy end
of the garden and the outermost shed.
There he used part of his insides
to smooth something from clay,
and you could hear him circling
as he tried to make his hands say
what his leaky lip could not.
Now he is looking good in ash
and has left behind shelves
groaning with collections of pots
ready to bury him in the earth.