Thursday, March 31, 2005


The wet clay – innocent, impressionable
Ductile and malleable...
And the ruthless wheel of fortune
That so effortlessly
Deforms, damages, and destructs
That which has the ‘potential’
To take its place of pride
On the mantelpiece
But now stands ‘cracked’
A glint passes through
With great difficulty
Easily reinforcing
That ‘happiness’ can
Only be a dream...
The shards of broken pottery
Cry their heart out...
And ask...
Why did you break me...
When I was taking shape?
And then melt away
Into shapeless lumps, drowned
In their own tears...

© Praneeta Paradkar 2005

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