The Clay

A poem about recovering and starting over

I was sitting in my room one dark day
In front of me was a small lump of clay
I did not know what I wanted to say
As on my crumpled bed I sadly lay

I then angrily took that lump of clay
My hands bore through it as it flowed like flay
The clay then flew as I threw it away
And it stuck on the wall that came its way

He then entered and saw me cry
He took his handkerchief and wiped them dry
He then looked at the corner of His eye
The clay that stuck on my blue wall to die

He took it off and held it in his hand
He placed it on my table and I scanned
Not anymore a lump of clay so bland
But a masterpiece to be made by hand

I took the clay and let it on my palm
I rolled it to a ball as He watched calm
I looked at the ball and marveled its charm
And placed it on the table as my psalm