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          I am a mold of unbaked clay

          Inside the fold of every day

          Disguised by eyes that blink false lashes;

          Shiny, silver, satin sashes

          Make-up masks and Chic Cologne

          Wrap the drone I beg to clone!

          To stay their styles and steady trends,

          To feel their lip-sticked, happy grins.


          When something false belays my starts;

          An engine choking, coughing sparks,

          Revoking license to my mold

          I try their shapes, but they won't hold!


          "There are sharks among your peers."

          Something warns and sears my ears!

          Yet, I am blind and deaf and dumb

          My newborn clay still sucks its thumb!

          Fears, at last, to fears succumb.

          My God, what is it I'll become?


          Tears become an ocean squall;

          My brow a waxing waterfall

          As panic frames my frantic question,

          But then to God, no new expression.

          He's heard that plaintive plea, I'm sure,

          Yet, I've naught sought His help before!!


          Still I try to pass the test

          To find my face among the rest,

          (for God, it seems, was quite asleep

          when I made my request)!

          And though I am the blackest sheep

          Among the whitest herds,

          It seems I'm feeling less distressed

          Than when I zippered all my words.


          Indeed, I am convinced at times,

          The patina over my design

          Is more than dirty gathered dust.

          And I begin to trust a knowing,

          I am something Special growing…


          I am a mold of unbaked clay

          With hands that shape me night and day

          Into a sculpture that is mine

          Not cloned from some assembly line!

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