Man of Clay,
That’s who I am,
Sculptured into being,
With the sculptor’s breath in my lungs.
I know not,
How long I’ll be in this frame,
No guarantee handed to me,
But I know I am not a waste.
Sometimes I get carried away,
By things that don’t matter,
Thinking I can do just anything,
Forgetting I am just a man of clay.
I have reached the top of the mountain,
But have also fallen to the bottom of the valley;
I have tried to satisfy the clay that I am,
Forgetting that it will crumble at expiry.
I have tried all my life to do my best,
But despite my good intentions,
I have made numerous mistakes,
That’s because I am a man of clay.
Some people may not like my look,
They may not like what I do,
Even condemning what I say,
To make it look like no life in the clay.
I am a man of clay;
That makes me malleable,
For my sculptor to mould me,
And shape me into his likeness.
Excerpts from LIFE POEMS