Metamorphosis of Media

The jagged outline of a menacing grimace slashed across leather hard clay

is mocking me.

I smooth out its edges with a wooden tool,

crafting it into an appeasable complexion-

how I wish I could do so with my own.

The lumped collection of cold, ground Earth

brings joy beyond that of a

newly-made mother

into the crinkling corners of my soul;

it becomes evident

as I touch the clay’s cold complexion

that the blunt, bulleted points

in the self-help book that I received for Christmas

were not simply made to raise hopes

only to shatter them.

Sitting idly upon the potter’s wheel,

the ceramic clump whispers stories of the years it lay

screaming

under the colossal weight of

the Earth and its counterparts.

I sit.

I listen.

It relishes in its suffering and

fondly recalls the day when it was simply

dirt under pressure.

I sit.

I watch.

Its walls slim as the clay allows itself to become fragile,

curving sensuously into an ample fullness

defined only by

complete maturity.

With an omniscient air of wisdom and grace,

the malleable material sheds pounds of history,

transforming effortlessly into a shimmering vase.

With my hand lightly grazing the ever-spinning wheel,

I allow myself to be filled with emptiness.

I sit.

I exist.