The passionate ceramicist stamps his foot;
The figure of a seraph he’s smashed to boot;
The bonfire of the vanities coats him with soot.
The model-breaker battles his rue taken root;
From ill-fated trysts, burned in vain pursuit,
Some scorching mouths kissed have left him mute.
Insomniacs, somnambulists alike have taught
That curses and animus are all for naught;
What does it matter if he cries out or not?
Inside the kiln’s sintering mists, old love’s still hot;
The firing figurine persists
In fusing what he seeks and sought;
Like Paris’s motto she lists,
“But sinketh not.”