Moldable

There was once a piece of clay
Soft, fresh, and new
Perfect to mold and shape
Into a pleasant view
A sculptor came along
And eyed the simple lump
He thought it needed more detail
“I’ll make an intricate rose,”
But this, the clay didn’t want
The delicate petals that emerged
From the sculptor’s hands
Were beautiful and fragile
But the sculpture wasn’t sturdy
And that the clay couldn’t stand
It pleased the sculptor, though,
So clay kept its form
Until a girl came along
And didn’t like the shade of brown
“It needs to be red,”
The girl said
And grabbed a vermillion dye
She rubbed it all over the clay
‘I don’t like this,’ it wanted to cry
However, the girl was satisfied
And that was all that mattered
So the clay kept its color
Until a boy came along
And looked at the clay in disgust
Bend it, dye it, twist it he might
But nothing the boy did
Made the clay a prettier sight
So he left the weary old hunk to be
And no one touched it after that
With that, the clay was free
Of expectations, complications
Of something it did not want to be.