Dysfunctional are we,
As pots of clay,
Imperfect and molded,
By the words of mere men,
That shape our wants and desires from within,
How foolish though is the man that is he,
His destiny chosen by someone's beliefs,
When he is a symphony awaiting to be played,
In perfect harmony,
To make his debut,
Each note sounded out in perfect accord to each word,
He chooses his scenery, his passion, his love,
For she fits him,
Molds to him to complete the piece,
That the one who was molding left out,
A delicate mystery of how he found her,
Her nimble hands as she sewed back,
The buttons upon his favorite tweed jacket,
Or the way her eyes seemed to glisten,
When he smiled to her before leaving the shop,
Her dark, soft hair fitting the picture perfectly,
Engraved upon his mind,
Though years it did take to find the right one,
His finishes his work, his piece,
The job is done,
And the new *** of fine clay,
Is molded with her,
And they become one.