Man in a grave,
surrounded on all fronts —
by trinkets used day to day.
Who belongs to whom?
Who is the master?
Who is the slave?

Flesh and bones
wither away like morning mist —
yet, pottery remains.
It's intricate patterns
speak an ancient tongue.

Even steel corrodes,
and yet, pottery remains.
Mud buried in mud,
it retains it's sapient form.

Beneath it all,
what is the purpose?