The Taste of Surrender

I am, coming to grips with what has come before me,

as I have finally come to grip this cup in front of me‐

After repeatedly accepting and rejecting what has simply come to be,

I must again, sip, this taste that sits at this table I've been placed...

and for what?...

that I may come again tomorrow to taste again what I wish to be replaced?...

Is this the taste of surrender?

~

My own blood tastes better than this...

this, repeated vanity with which my lips have been laced‐

The bitterness in this cup simply couldn't, be more pure...

might I surrender to endurance, that I may be rewarded with more to endure?...

The daily pour of this cup has taught me that dread is only sure,

for the work of my palms could do nothing in all their plans...

Is this the taste of surrender?

~

My prayers, I know have been heard, and here I am, with this in my hands...

my requests, denied, that my faith may be tested...

for what my face may hide, I know that my heart will show,

that I might continue to reap what I sow, only that my hands may have more to sow...

even the air has come to reak with the aroma of this overflow,

and certainly the breath of my lungs is no better with the disgust of my speech in its blow...

Is this the taste of surrender?

~

So, shall stay and sit?...

or simply spit, this putrid taste from my lips that I may go and chase after Death directly‐

If only, I could crush this cup with the grip of my hands,

that I may be free from this table that seems to be only torment...

or, might I go out to sea, that I may simply sink, and drown

far, far away from this cup that holds bitterness instead of something sweet

This, taste of surrender.