NaPoWriMo 22/30: Cupful of Apocalypse

That's not the name of this poem.  But I thought it sounded funny.  Which is appropriate because this poem is actually weirdly sad.

Whether the glass is half full

Or half empty

Doesn’t matter to the empty half.

It’s still unfulfilled,

It sits next to occupied space,

And it’s jealous.

Half-full, half-empty,

All disappointed.

The gloating, bloated half

Fat with liquid,

While half the glass stays dry,

Feeling only a trickle

When a glass is tipped,

Emptied.

Inches more unsatisfied,

Still wet with lost dreams.

When I reach for one glass,

The others get upset.

Vessels, all

Molten sand constructed

Some by hand, some factory-perfect,

Made to be sated,

They are empty,

And when the cabinet closes

It’s dark on the shelf.

Well-worn, this glass is cracked,

A hairline fracture in my reflection,

No matter how full it becomes,

The substance beads and leaks.

It wants more than anything

To be a glass again, whole,

Capable of habitation,

Occupation,

But it is spoiled.

A vessel incapable of holding,

What does it become?

When the world ends,

What will become of our glasses?

Our cups, our mugs,

Etched with long-forgotten tribute

To a long-forgotten #1 Mom.

To catch slogans engineered in Hallmark factories long-since past.

They will remain as dust flakes down over our ruins,

The grime of time outlines fingerprints,

Lips already in cold decay.

Beckoning to be held again.

Time is measured in the filling and emptying of vessels,

We wander full until time drains us

And remain vessels six feet underground, still waiting for rapture

To pour light into us.

Do cups dream?

And when they do

Are they half-full?

Or half-empty?