To Make Clay Pots
You were a thief, with a potter's worn wheel
stoled with artist's hands
what your eye demands
and claimed every lover's mould you could steal
to be washed away
with your potter's clay
and the pots love formed, from your lover's zeal
when the fire grew old
and the kiln turned cold
every clump of their clay, that you would repugn
you would darken the floor, with lovers you'd strewn
all that was, is now gone
With each counted tear, that rolled down a face
that's now a long line
a faded design
read through the night with memory's embrace
of deep tearful sleep
when hearts felt so cheap
for love is a cruel game, played always by one
in times of your lost soul, and only for fun
to never account, for the sadness you've done
all that was, is now gone
what's left to look upon?
5/15/18 Qarinage...Any Topic Poetry Contest
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