Hello, it's me the clay
on the potter's wheel
waiting for the girl who
My form's fate will seal
mind turns endlessly
thoughts begin to reel
hands that shape my base
have a strangling feel
cold, wet, smooth and hard
grip me so very tight
forcing me to shapes where
I cannot see the light
squeezing me into what
I do not want to see
I don't even know just
what it is I want to be
maybe potter knows best
I should just let her mold
go along to get along
release from life my hold
cast myself upon the
whim of the almighty
let my self go down
the drain of infinity
(this is a rather melodramatic piece of clay!)
If I knew for sure
what for me she'd choose
would it make it easier
my autonomy to lose?
It would look rather odd
if clay began to shout
"take your hands off me
quit all this pushing about!"
How would I even start
to articulate my choice
what could I ever say
do I even have a voice?
well here she goes now
she is about to add glaze
I have fully emerged
seems I'm a flower vase
Guess it could be worse
my neighbor next door
his potter got upset and
smashed him on the floor (!)
I can live with a vase.
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