Life, the Potter

A piece of clay spinning around, Molded by hands of fire and ice, Shaped into form; tied and bound By experiences through this vice. Round and round upon a spin wheel, Born into centre going fast and slow, Pieces of clay falling; the bonemeal picked up and hand built to grow. Every piece of clay on the slab, Foot pressing down on pedal and held, The hands pinch, fold and grab Molding each into a shape unparalleled. Potter works tirelessly, but exhausted, Each mistake, flaw seen by many the few, Of these to account for all, but costed Enough and thrown into oven, our debut. Baked into true form with all on display, Heat rising and baking; what is shown… Beautiful pot or broken pieces of clay? Oven opens, steam rising; a tombstone.