Clay
By David Smyth

I fell asleep beneath a tree one golden Autumn eve
I made my bed in on dewy grass adorned with fallen leaves
I dreamed I had a lump of clay and set about its moulding
I needed here and stretched it there ‘til shape began unfolding
To give it life and hopes and dreams and breath became my mission
It would exist to be the best, not cower in submission
So it was that it came forth, in form and in emotion
I rested then and eyed my work as it set itself in motion
It did the things I could not do, or dared not do or feared
But as I woke I lost my view, my creation disappeared
I brushed the leaves from off my self and thought about my vision
It never lay when faced with doubt or unwanted tough decision
I wished I could be more like clay, reshape when I was failing
And face the strife and move on past when all else there was ailing
But in the end it was only clay, after all thoughts and seeming
Then it was gone that thought I had, it was only Autumn dreaming.