Clay

A moist substance between my fingers. An astronaut, politician, a singer?
I ball it in my palms and let it slide onto the table. Will this raw talent take the shape in which it's able?
Like the tide, my hands soothe this substance every now and again. Will its friends stay with him or just not know where to begin?
Time passes and new features are added everyday. "Soon i'll think about its future" I'd say.
They listened, so soon the clay dried and to me turned out to be grand. "You put the future in my hands, so I made a man"