Pot – A Poem

A vast pot, bronze and strong, sits over a fire.

Light coruscates serpentine over the dappled metal,

Flames keep it hot and within boils oil.

We think we are the oil, you and I.

Embroiled inseparably, lost amidst each other,

In constant eruption, hot and without rest.

But one day the oil will be gone, boiled dry.

A black burned tar will scar, but even this will die in time,

To leave, invulnerable to flame or the oils unstable flails, the pot.

Only then will we see clearly, that it is we,

Not the fluid chaos of thick black temper,

But the beautiful brass, unharmed by the blast.

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