To Make Clay Pots

You were a thief, with a potter's worn wheel stoled with artist's hands what your eye demands and claimed every lover's mould you could steal to be washed away with your potter's clay and the pots love formed, from your lover's zeal when the fire grew old and the kiln turned cold every clump of their clay, that you would repugn you would darken the floor, with lovers you'd strewn all that was, is now gone With each counted tear, that rolled down a face that's now a long line a faded design read through the night with memory's embrace of deep tearful sleep when hearts felt so cheap for love is a cruel game, played always by one in times of your lost soul, and only for fun to never account, for the sadness you've done all that was, is now gone what's left to look upon? 5/15/18 Qarinage...Any Topic Poetry Contest