It Cures All Ills

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Wicked still and gasping for breath,

Old wares dragged up to the crest.

Masks come undone, curtain call,

as it rises through your chest.

 

Fever in the guise of manic thought,

sweating out the sickness internal.

Aching in ways to debilitate,

inner talk becomes infernal.

 

We all desire the medicine that cures all ills,

The man behind the curtain to fix our wills,

Salve to relive our hearts from the chill,

Something to keep the monsters still…

 

Snake oil salesman materialize in front of your very eyes,

But once you wish for the cure all it is no surprise,

That it is not the doctor but the patient you despise.

 

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Spasms of reaction born in pride,

shaking yourself to sleep.

Infection of the inner self,

making the surgical cuts so deep.

 

Broken bones of soul and spirit,

knitting and the itch besides.

Bleed it out with your own leeches,

for here only one physician resides.

 

We all desire the medicine that cures all ills,

The man behind the curtain to fix our wills,

Salve to relive our hearts from the chill,

Something to keep the monsters still…

 

Snake oil salesman materialize in front of your eyes,

But once you wish for the cure all it is no surprise,

That it is not the doctor but the patient you despise.

-Thomas Spychalski

One Response to It Cures All Ills

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