The generational tools
Scattered, laid out right beneath your nose.
A pleasuring image your eyeballs seem to devour.
You lower yourself in that same creaky chair
Excitement pulses through you
Or is it that sense of unknown?
An innocence, a futility
Pervades the airless space.
Clays and ceramic gaze upon your persona
Wondering, what you will make of them.
Their worth, their value, you’d swear your survival by.
Discrepancies between action and intention
You are unaware of.
The wheel spins
Warm ceramic envelops
Waves of power absorbed by flawed movements.
Narrow or wide
Dark or light
A unified construction
Or a tainted one
Who shall know yet if you don’t?
The movements fixate its shape
A tattooed moulding which it will be stuck with,
Its resistance tied to the string of your touch.
Then from your grip it’ll pass,
Next stage of the cyclical factory.
Clients will review and critique
Renowned painters may reach it
Trying to paint a red rose, a starry sky
To blur its shape
To enhance minuscule, jagged cracks
Left by once known callous fingers.
Isn’t that discrepancy so much clearer now?
Photo courtesy of Swapnll Dwivedi