An Old Man Turns Pensive

Give ‘em back, the years, they’ve all gone by, clay I was entrusted to employ. I stand now on the abyss of time, and what is there that I call mine? The works of the masters have eluded me, time itself has deluded me. My clay now sits in front of a child, the gods have bequeathed It to them and smiled. It shouldn’t be wasted on years that have passed, let them take it and use it for whatever might last.

Bluejay

Veteran of old My Poetry Forum before its hiatus. Happy to be back.

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