The Potter and the Painter

Clay turns round and round, Upon a spinning table, A Potter shapes the pile with his hands, The masterpiece is finally taking shape, His skin grey, Glistening wetly in the light, He feels so hollow inside, The room spins around him, Slowly he stops, In front of him sits a chair, His soul as dry as his now stone-like skin, A woman walks in, Taking him off the table, Carrying him to her station, She sits facing him with brush in hand, She hums to herself as the she paints, The colors of her soul pouring onto him, Man and woman bonded, Together forever, Their love as beautiful as their creation.