15 / 06 / 2019 - Roald

Frail Teacup

Frail Teacup,
Always looking down and out,
From the cone into infinitude,
Away from source.

Frail Teacup,
Your way was not that of gathering,
More knowledge,
More concepts,
More experience,
More memories.

Not knowing so,
and in doing,
Your emptiness was filled,
Ever to the brim.

Cracked,
Chattered,
Re-glued,
Frail Teacup.

Frail Teacup,
There you sit at life’s end,
At the edge of the train station,
Trembeling,
Unknowing of what comes next.

Why not did all these liquid fillings,
Fullfill your everlasting thirst?
When all other teacups did the same,
Giving you just one example.

Frail Teacup,
Cracked,
Fragile,
Watching the momentum,
Of the passing trains.

Frail Teacup,
Now wondering where your youth has gone,
Why did not all these gatherings,
Not lead to wisdom?

Your frantic outgoing ways,
The irresistible urge to fill,
With form after form,
Is looking in the wrong direction,
You I should have turned away from the reflection.

Frail Teacup,
Trembling as the trains go past,
Knowing that little longer,
Shall you last.

Replaced you shall be,
With newer teacups,
In this infinitude of vanishing form,

Frail Teacup,
Can you still not see?
Your days were numbered as a teacup,
But not as I,
The everlasting one inside,
Which never bursts with pride.

The Seeing is who you really are,
Never at a distance, never afar,
All those stains and a splitting crack,
From Grace-filled Nothing,
Are seen to have no lack.

Too late,
As even now your cup is full,
With empty thoughts,
Appearing full.

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