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The Parting Cup
by Carole Bugge
He hands me the cup of his sorrow but I refuse to drink
repelled by the dregs of a life indifferently lived
I crave enjoyment, renown, fame and fortune's smiles
to live not by inches but by long and glorious miles
emboldened to swim, not flounder, flail and sink
In my season of sweetness, I shun sorrow's ungainly sting
my body's not done with celebrating, thrusting wildly at the world
the caw of winter crows, the sparrow's song in spring
to revel in the sheen of fine cotton sheets and downy quilts, sensuality's gifts
while before me stands a small, sad man with his present of regret, loss and guilt
Determined not to lose the chance to dream, to dance, to dare
though Nature lent me his DNA, his blood, the flesh of his bones
I steel myself to turn away and exorcise my ability to care
Sympathy shriveling in his presence, I long to leave him holding the cup alone
Must I drink from this tarnished well, beats the tattoo in my head
why not simply step outside and seize at splendor instead?
But joy unshared is half a pleasure, and sadness divided half a measure
Though pleasures may come by the dozen, agony is joy's shy cousin
And in the moment I prepare to turn and walk away
my heart takes the lead, and I realize with some surprise
as I reach for the cup
I have chosen to stay
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