The wheel hums low, steady, eternal motion.
Clay bends soft, yielding under firm pressure.
I watch it twist and reshape, no protest.
A hand digs deep, pulls the heart upward.
The Potter knows; the clay stays silent.
Fingers pull impurities, scraping hidden edges.
I feel it now too, the hard squeeze.
I crack, resist, but the turning doesn’t relent.
What choice do I have but to endure?
He sees visions I cannot, beyond the glaze.
What I think I am, spun into nothing.
What I will be, still his quiet secret.
Trust is heavy; faith, a fragile lump.
But his hands are steady, shaping patience.
The wheel never falters, rhythm swallowing doubt.
The Potter works; I surrender to being formed.
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Author:
gray0328 (
Offline) - Published: October 16th, 2025 11:30
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 12
Offline)
Comments2
We all come from clay and are shaped by our biology and environment, hands that are not always gentle. A telling poem. Nicely done
I feel there's a religious element here I cannot relate to. However the sensation that I was formed by forces I could not control comes across clearly and truthfully.
Thanks for addressing it in that way.
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