There's a copper tumbler floating

There are hands reaching and reaching

Some draw waters from the glowing river

But before lips latch on to the metal mouth

They splash down, drenching the fingers

And like gluttons we shove the fingers down our throats

Dancing like fools on the aftereffects

Blinded from the glare of the river

Never noticing the hole in the tumbler

Never noticing the essence ebbing into the tide

Addicted to the promise and wetness of life

Afraid of being parched and thirsty

Afraid yet, of sinking our hands into those waters

Of cupping our hands

Of just falling headlong into them

Because it's a river of fire

And burnt soul was never a perfume we wear well

Because someone left a broken tumbler once

And suddenly, the only light we see is what it gives off

So we scramble madly, moulding copper

And the hole in it too.

The waters of life flow, the soul fire burns

The forge is lit for the copper urn

Make what you know or throw yourself in

A container of perfection

A hand that draws with blind greed

Or the watcher who knows the futility of both.

Untethered, dented copper urn

Shining, as the world burns.