The Hollow Chalice

 
The Hollow Chalice echoes roam
The river flows, but I am bone,
A vessel cracked, alone, alone.
I search the skies, but find no dome
The stars are ash, and ash is home.

The sickle swings but strikes no fruit,
The root is dust, the seed is mute.
You walk the earth with silver boot,
Yet tread on thorns, yet taste the soot.

To love and die, to die and love,
Is it not the same, to writhe and shove?
In death’s embrace, we mourn the dove
A coldness hums, the song above.

The mirror cracks, the face is gone,
The soul is lost, the void is drawn.
A thought once whole, now tattered, torn
What’s born to break is born to mourn.

You chase the likes, the hollow cheers,
A thousand voices masked by fears.
A life reduced to vanity's tears
Why then do we still hold these years?

A handshake cold, a touch once warm,
Now all is lost within the storm.
The self is wrapped in perfect form
Yet molded clay can never warm.

The sun sets low, yet no one sees,
A trembling leaf upon the breeze.
You seek to heal, to seek to please,
Yet deeper wounds, the blood will freeze.

And when the night becomes too long,
What value does your echo’s song?
To whisper soft, to cry out strong
What answer lies within the wrong?

The hollow cup will never fill,
No praise, no love, no hand, no will.
A laugh, a tear, a soul to kill
Why then do we pursue the thrill?

Why?