Broken Cup

every living being wants
to hold and be held...
even the tree embraces the sky,
drops its leaves, as its sap
runs warm...

do you hate me so much?
no, that would take passion.
and to you i'm nothing
but a cemetary, a headstone,...

a vagrant crow...

a yellowed page in a book
no one takes off the shelf.
moth balls and insulin,
a broken cup on the floor.

poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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