Cusp Of My Cup

The cusp of my cup overfloweth full, 

liquid branching over the brim- 

and falling over the handle lithe 

but the pitcher is nearing empty. 

How much can we learn, before breaching periphery 

the limit of intelligence, and the extent of our stupidity? 

When the muse exhausts himself on our minds exactly, 

will we be repeats on resurrection, like phoenixes in paradox? 

Are we ashes now, when we can take no more? 

what ever will we degrade to? 

But, if you mix it with argil, 

be reborn in mien and statue.