Post-Modernism Really Sucks

Chasing clouds areound the sky
Teacup swirls, world passes by
Locked into headphones isolation-wired
This clay baked hard and damn near fired.

As Owen said, "Was it for this?"
That we pushed and kicked inside the womb
Deep in earth's bone, clay entombed
Longed for sunlight, words and trees.

But birthing proved a slippery slope
Greased palms shoved downwards,
Not helped by mother's cries
And out came - what?

What do you make from fresh-turned clay?
Endless ambition and a summers' day
Are enough to break the womb away
Like a crucible can mould gold to any shape -

And what possibilities, what capacity for joy!
What slices of gold we seemed to enjoy!
So with hopes and dreams we poured the next crucible -
Left it to set and patiently waited -
Polished with love and patiently waited -
And what came out was

Teacups and clouds.
Wow. We've had that one before -
So change the record, love.

Hopeful.