I was dealt by, The Creator of All Things,
with this clay.
A clay of my color,
A clay of my pain.
Day by day,
my hands are molding this clay
and sculpting it as I think it shall be.
Sculpting my figure, forming its mind.
But, day by day,
I thought I had formed it well,
when in truth I realize, it was astray.
It was not what my nature called for.
It was formed by the mind of some other,
but shaped by my very own hands,
it gave me nothing, but an empty standing sand.
So I scatter it,
and begin sculpting it again.
And hoping it will linger with this shape,
as I pause my hands to take a break.
As I watch it standing there,
I see a ray of hope,
but I cannot see it dancing.
My Lord, what sin have I done
for me not being able to sculpt this figure?
YOU ARE READING
You Who Knows Best
PoetryThis is a series of love poems written by me. "May we meet where the eye can find its rest, And where our hearts beat for each other, even outside of our breasts."
