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.