The Clay's Lament

Sometimes folks in the communal pottery studio leave their clay on the plaster part of the wedging table to dry for a bit, and then they forget about it. Tonight, an accumulation of dried out clay lumps inspired this:

The Clay's Lament

~ in tragic verse ~

High atop a mountain born,
Across millennia, ground and worn,
'Til rested I in a riverbed,
For thy art then harvested.
My life, once formed, was all too brief:
My form, once lived, brought thee but grief.
Now on th'wedging table, I:
Abandoned here, out to dry.
Will no artist's hand or eye
Alter this cruel destiny?