The Pot

By Poet

The pot lay on that shelf

Made by the expert potter himself.

It was gorgeous and I examined it,

In that window that was moonlit.

So i said “Your master must love you,

For your beauty cant be an undervalue”

The pot just scoffed and said

“That man fills me with such dread,

For his tactics almost made me dead.

Just his name puts an ache in my head.”

“Well, why would he do such a thing?

Why would he hurt a pot fit for a king?”

The pot got ready to tell his sad tale,

And I could hear a loud inhale.

“I lived with my family I love,

Near a little cove,

Right above some water

That would pass by in a blur.

But one day the master came,

And he took me away.

He scraped and scratched at me to pick me up,

And when i thought I would die and asked him to stop,

But he said “not yet.”

When he was finally done

He brought me home,

And he folded me and hit me and hurt me,

And i begged and had one final plea before he killed me,

“Please stop, I will die!”

And he smiled and said not yet.

When he was finally done,

I thought he was simple rotten,

But at least the pain was finished.

Yet he put me on a long, circular dish.

And he spun me and molded me and I know I would die,

From this abuse and dizziness,

And i looked and him and told him I’d die,

So “please stop”

And he looked at me and said not yet.

When he was done, he brought me into a room,

And he left me to burn and I was filled with gloom.

I burned from the fire and saw him through the window,

So through tears I asked him “please stop”

But i saw him mouth “not yet”

This misery kept coming

O’er and o’er again,

By glazing me and putting me back in the fire,

Each time begging him to stop,

And he always said “not yet.”

At last he took me out

And painted me, inside and out.

Oh it smelled awful

Painting me should have been unlawful.

And I asked him please stop

And he said not yet.

But finally he finished me,

And now I sit here in misery.

So you see, he doesnt love me.”

Isaiah 64:8

But now, O Lord, you are our Father; we are the clay, and you are our potter; we are all the work of your hand.

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