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,

Labelled 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

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