While I pick at this mold I’m asked
What do you want to be
A fluffy cloud?
Nah, it’s too late
Nah, my arms are growing tired.
Well what do you want to be?
I wish to remain shapeless
not caste in a womb and fired in a kiln
I wish to remain a moist slab watered daily
easily used as a bowl
then a cup
or kneaded to comfort
but no I do not wish to be a temporary choice