A piece of clay, a piece of mind.
 

A sense of self I hope to find.
 

I wet my fingers then lick my lips,
 

I feel the clay beneath my fingertips.

Year after year, it’s always the same,

Perpetually pawing at an incomprehensible aim.
 

Some days, I feel close to the finish,
 

But soon enough, I feel that confidence diminish.
 

I flatten the model, and begin again,
 

Hoping this attempt will not be in vain.
 

Re-molding, re-shaping the same confused heap
 

I realize patience should not be buried so deep,
 

A model of mine may never enter the furnace,
 

Time moves with an unpredictable sternness.
 

One day, expectation and reality will coalesce
 

Regardless, this clay I am proud to possess.