The deep pain it is to be molded,
fingers pressing in and around,
kneading the spots that are sensitive
and sore to the touch.
The potter shapes and forms,
coaxing his subject and speaking softly
as he works this would-be treasure
into a new creation.
The outside begins to reveal its purpose
and the potter could stop,
but he pushes on and the clay’s
insides scream to be let alone.
The fire is too hot and too much
of the old self seeps out,
leaving a seemingly empty vessel
for which there is no going back.
The potter eyes his formation,
stronger now because of his hands,
but still unsure and resistant
of this being transformed.