This Ache

This ache
moulds
dispassionately casts,
making me breathe,
then gulp, breathless
a cord tightly
clasps the unspoken words
that threatened to break free
from the kiln.
The wheel works it's way
spinning all of it, into an unshaped vessel
that never fills, only gloats sometimes
when the night is young for the sleepless
and too old for those who know
it'll come back again tomorrow
to tap on what rests within
like clay
the ache
that'll bake the moist tenderness;
fluid and porous
till the residue is left:
black tar of venomous ugliness
into this bowl of vile
This ache
rests, gleaming
till it coldens into rock,
This ache.

PLEASE NOTE: A wonderful prompt given where I had to think of one particular profession/trade/job and use the verbs that are commonly associated with them to write a poem on a completely different subject.

So here, the profession is that of a Potter. And my subject is The Ache. That is devoid of any other feeling or emotion. That has no cause nor consequence of it's own. Just remains. Not static but not moving. Like a heartbeat, it leaves a sense of it's presence and yet, affirms it's absence when it gets a little too crowded, if you know what I mean..