Under the Kiln Sometimes I feel like I’ve got clay on my hands, Shaping my life with these spinning demands. Where I throw my thoughts, where the glaze will shine, The PotShop’s a temple, a kiln divine. I don’t ever want to feel like I’m rushing time, No shortcuts to the art, no mountain I can’t climb. Take me to the place I love, where the wheel spins slow, Under the kiln’s soft glow, my peace will grow. It’s not just the clay; it’s the stillness it brings, The hum of creation, the pull of the strings. From dust to a vessel, from earth to the sky, Each piece tells a story, each crack, a goodbye. I don’t ever want to feel like the rush defines, My hands in the mud, where the spirit aligns. Take me to the place I love, where the wheel spins slow, Under the kiln’s soft glow, my heart will know.
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