Writers 
The room dim, lit by a single flame
Clay scattered — dry, cracked, forgotten
Dust swirls in silence,
Where once melodies echoed with grace
Upon a broken wheel, the vessel sits
Tilted, bruised, once shaped by skilled hands
Its edges chipped, its purpose blurred
A ghost of glory in a bed of ashes
Visitors come, eyes glazed with scorn
“What use remains?” they murmur
Hands reach, not to mend but to measure
Is it worthless? The world cares not
The Potter stands at the doorway
Silent, still — His eyes hold fire
Yet His hands remain at His side
For time must teach what touch cannot
Storms pass — winds whisper regrets
Years wrap around the vessel’s frame
Stiff and silent it waits,
No longer crying, only aching
One day, footsteps stir the dust
The Potter moves — not rushed, not slow
He lifts the vessel with unshaken care
Though marred, He smiles: “It remembers Me.”
Water meets dust, breath meets flame
Fingers mold gently, pressing with pain
Not to harm, but to shape again
Love’s labor on the wheel of mercy
The cracks begin to sing
The bruises soften into beauty
The broken lines shimmer gold —
Each scar, a seal of His return
He places it high, where the light rests
Fills it with oil, rich and fragrant
No longer forsaken, no longer flawed
Now fit for the table of kings
Is it whole? The world cares not
But the Potter knows —
She was always His.
THE END
