To Cure the Rabid
Bleed me; get the poisons out. Don't let me cease to breathe, for my eyes still work just fine, as does my nose, and I don't want to sense me leaving. Forage my body for the working valves; don't let me cease to be myself, no one can replace me when I'm gone. Don't let me faint before I know; don't send me to the frothy mouth of God, for I can't know where my blessings are. Doctor is my greatest hope; a paper bag upon the wind. When my murmurs of morphine come to a halt lace my darkness with life once again.Except for the last stanza, the rhyming in this poem is completely accidental. Written October 24th, 2001 © on Oct 24 2001 09:15 AM PST, Katrina Armour 0 • 10
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"Bleed me; get the poisons out...."