The Potter’s hands
holds a body of clay
as young lovers hold each other’s hearts -
pumping the potter’s wheel,
round and round
like some clock gone mad.
A kiln, smokes in the corner of this room
belching black clouds of hatred
becoming hot, envious to devour
whatever enters its mouth -
stuck wide, flames for teeth ready to bite.
In time all shapes change,
becoming one, then the next
leaving only a fading shadow
from the kiln’s flame, ghosts
jumping in a second of light - yet
revealing nothing above a floor of dirt.
It is in the end
art becomes refuse,
old and broken
empty of the usefulness it once had
buried in a field of obscurity
forgotten as a warm breeze wisps away its final dusty footprints.