Teacup Nihilism

Pissing in a teacup,
praying for rain—
but all that comes down
are ashes and pain.
Squinting at halos
that flicker and fade,
chasing after shadows
in a game I never played.

Frowning at distances,
catching the names
of ghosts in the alleys,
whispering blame.
Gospel truths float,
just beyond reach,
but each one I touch
turns to dust on my teeth.

I expand on their names,
stretch them like clay,
but they slip through my fingers,
just words in decay.
Pissing in a teacup,
I drown in my dread,
hoping for salvation
from the thoughts in my head.

Squinting through rain,
looking for signs—
the sky splits open
but reveals no design.
Angels mock me
from behind closed doors,
as I scribble my fears
on the walls and floors.

For every gospel
that I clutch and embrace,
there’s a mirror of darkness
reflecting my face.
I reach for redemption,
but it’s wrapped in disdain,
pissing in a teacup,
just to piss in the rain.

The maidens I sought
are just echoes and mist,
the halos I longed for
are shadows half-kissed.
I kneel in the dirt,
swallow prayers made of stone,
but each time I rise
I’m more alone.

Expanding on names,
forgetting the truth,
chasing the echoes
of my wasted youth.
A fool in the rain,
a joke in the game—
still pissing in teacups,
still calling your name.