Clay

The formless clay that's in my hands,
I carve and shape until it stands,
Before me, finished and complete,
A work of art- no easy feat.

Seven Days a Week

The seven days that fill her week,
Are full of burdens from her work.
And the monotony of it,
Brings sadness she cannot avert.

At some point she recalls her youth,
And wonders when her love was lost.
Did she dismiss it as non-truth?
Did she ignore the hefty cost?

But in her mind there is no place,
To wonder if her choice was good.
So every morning, every day.
She works as every good girl should.

Trade

Go forward you,
And walk the world,
Unflinching sons of liberty.
It's you of whom stories are told,
Tales of selfish purity.

Lift up the sky,
With your tall homes,
And dig inside the earth for wealth.
Trade in the many things you own,
For things that you want for yourself.