Fine-Tune

I sprung back from my own crucifixion.
Entombed in feldspar. Plated and served.
Robbed once of air.
But that was everyday ware.

Inspire, respire newly
from so long an inferno.
Each calcinate kiln blisters more feverish
than past violations incurred.

Yet here I am performing.
The world is torrid with fire.
I once smelled my white-hot flesh
decomposing but what of it.

You too will burn into little white bricks.
Petuntse altered from rock to clay.
How malleable are you?
Will you strum through the changes?