Stop, Pots!

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It sits in Nature’s place, for long begone

From the world of hateful crime due to bore;

The maker of which is toiling from dawn,

Fighting the ruthless life of endless score.

He sits down at nine to feed his insight.

His journey to the tough day’s hard-earned night;

His joyful time of peace, a golden light.

Look over there! The shadow of a pot,

Filling the air with its light, earthy scent;

Across the misty fog, a distinct plot

Finds itself “vacant” after the years spent. 

Men of vile humor crawl into this space:

The space of lovely kindness gone to waste;

The space, raptured by the fools of this race.

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