The man and his cup
The man and his cup.
His most treasured possession,
Seated on the dry, broken ground…pondering,
Is he better off six feet under?
Is his cup better off deserted?
Or perhaps filled with tears of his wretched soul,
A man’s fate destined for Hades,
Crashed within,
Finding no sense in ‘alive’,
Seeing the graveyard in his fantasies,
In his subconscious,
Scratching the goddamned earth,
Searching for a fill,
Bingo!like a jackpot…an idea pops up,
the man suddenly possessed!
grabs the next sharp object
slashes his finger off,
smiling…feeling a high
as he stares at the blood dripping slowly but surely in the cup.
It gets its fill.
the man’s content.
As he find company in pain.
it embraces him….overwhelms him.
the voices in his head begin…the shout..they taunt!
the cup,like a slave to gravity,
lands.
Million different pieces
and the blood spills!
Is there hope for a wretched soul?
