Potential or Porcelain?

Potential or porcelain?



Can I be a promise? Can I be an evolution all my own? Can my potential solidify into reality, creating greater potential? An everlasting quest, a never-ending well of potential?



Can I be pottery? Can I be strong and solid? Can I hold what you thirst for? Can I be molded through fire and flame? Can I be a chalice, vulnerable to the clumsy hands of the jester, while cherished to the guardian's lips?



Would you hide me away from the jokers, locked in a cabinet where only you can see my beauty and know my worth? Would you display me behind glass where others can look and revel, but not hold and know? Would you love me as your own creation and carry me as your favored? Would you drink from me and then fill me back up?



Do I sing the songs of love, but not dance in my own moonlight?



Do I fill and overflow?



Look at me, am I not drenched? Is my oil not ignited and burning so that I myself do not fear the fire?



It is the chill… the cold… the ice… the glacier blue… the dripping from the icicles that terrify me. The frosty discontent of unfulfilled expectations dropped into the porcelain chalice that that makes me so brittle. The cold, cold breath in the air; nipping at the warm fingers and heart, tingling and fighting to stay warm.



Oh! What relentless tragedy that begets! Upon itself it builds as the ice and snow pile, snuffing out the flame within. Oh what relentless fire in my heart! What burning, smoldering, seething fire rains through my love! What hope have I if I allow myself to inhale the potential of winter, when my breath is of faithful fire?