The clay that I was moulded from
Makes shapes I sometimes frown upon,
And when stood next to other pots,
I fear the artist loves me not.
Oh hear my wish to be reborn,
And take a much more pleasing form!
But form has formed a trap for me,
In form I lose clear sight, you see;
If artist truly hated me,
He could smash me instantly.
As e’en great artists can’t remake
What the kiln has thus far baked.
But let he leaves me on this shelf
Perhaps to see another self?
Is my judgement really true,
Or can I take a kinder view?
Some pots for decoration live,
While some a worthy service give-
For ornate pots the eye can please
But inside, pots hold mysteries.
A crooked pot some ridicule
But inside filled with precious jewels.
And would you put your bank of gold
In golden pots that secrets told?
Oh teach me how to look inside!
And see the treasure this pot hides.
February 2011
Pasha Lyndi 𓆃 