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Monday, August 20, 2012

33. A Measure of Pain

I wrote a writ, but now I sneezed
Much pain I feel, and ill at ease
The pain, I feel, I know it true
But where, oh death, it must ensue.

My eye, it tear
With pain to rent
To move and breath
With no relent

Ah, relief, for the moment I stay
To find a place of solace at bay
My heart is tired from stress and ill
Relief from pain, 'Not now!' says quill.

A rock I know, I know its place
It keeps me there, and from disgrace
The pain, the pain, when will it pass
To dope and still, to make it last

To speak for right
My heart cries out
In pain, in pain
For life unborn.

She lives, he dies,
And no one cares
For pain has come
And death is cheap.

Give heart to man, the man in pain
His hip, his life, can now regain
Give life, not death, they lie reposed
In tombs of life and beds undone.

Who will care for the man in pain
Who moves and lives and breathes
His heart cries out for pain to stay
No room, no room for him today.



It is to the man in pain, who needs a place to stay, who lies in pain, with no money, and no redress. Who lies in state and men make decisions to send him to eternity, rather than taking a chance on his life. What we do when it comes our time, but reap what we have sown, in the uncares of life?  It is to the doctors who know the corruption of the system is coming and now is; that correction needs to take place, before we become what the worst of our selfishness begs us to be... to our own selves be true, to look out first for ourselves and let others fall where they may, pure self-interest.

It is in the care of others that the writ is written. Not of pride, nor will of man, but a declaration of what is and is to come, to foresee where we are going as a nation, where we have been, is not where we are. And, where we are going, has been seen in the abyss of pride.   

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