Sorely fashioned by a senile crone,
emerged I, from a lifeless lump of clay.
By rote, he formed me with his callused hands–-
work mechanical, devoid of passion.
Pressed, cut, shaped and scored,
and then the glaze.
Undistinguished nor beloved, a lowly form.
Functional tool, bore I daily use and wear:
a chip, a crack, a scratch, my color worn.
Still not identified amid the crowd,
resting too near the sloping edge I fell,
shattered and not fit to fill the mold.
The shards and scraps of me were spilled and scattered,
littered dust with treasures manifold.
I fashioned myself from the broken pieces.
Some were mine, while others foreign born.
I am no longer subject to the potter.
Mosaic juxtaposed, I am my own.
I haven’t written a poem in over a decade, people! This one came to me today as I was driving. I was contemplating how to describe my present condition of faith to a potential audience (on Facebook) of people who knew me as a conforming conservative with “bible based” beliefs. Anyways, this is what developed. Probably still not an overt statement and maybe not super clear, but it will serve its purpose as I reintroduce myself on Facebook.