The Ceramicists

Riddled with bruises of the poking and prodes to shape a life to fit a form already used. Lately I have pondered what a path I may have taken and the paths of others had our minds not been abused. We are clay pressed, stretched and bended We wait to be told what step goes where. In spite of stories and thoughts befriended We are handed another to cross to bare. But there is a new breed of hope growing upwards Perhaps one day We will break from the mould. For what's perceived as time wasted and moneyless will be wondrous, righteous and bold. I lie thinking in peace until morning Pink paint cascades and sheperd warnings cry. New beginnings steps directed by no one as the ceramicists say their goodbyes.