The mighty, holding dirt

with delicate hands so skilled,

Molding and caressing

A man undeserving.

The Potter loves His clay,

though it may be dirt,

He beholds a pleasing creation,

what’s not to love💝.
He place in the furnace

 the dirt he loves so dear,

Alas love has its own shades.

Just as Roses🌹 have thorn,

love has pain

although it may be dirt now,

He sees a glorious creation

what’s not to love.💝
writhing in agony,

Fire leaks its weaknesses,

the clay weeps 😭as the fire sparkles🔥

calling for a release,

yet there is no gesture from the potter,

although it may be clay,

he finds beauty in it

what’s not to love💝
Thirsty and exhausted,

clay tripped and fell out of the furnace;

hitting the rock, it marred.

The Potter, so compassionate lifts and remade it, 

although it may be dirt, 

He sees beauty

What’s not to love.
Fire in the bones,

dark bags sagging the eyes,

pillows soaked with tears,

its only for a night,

dawn brings light,

the fire is for beauty

the tears are for strength.

What’s not to love.

By Olaoluwa 

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