be kind. rewind. recycle. remember.

I feel a sort of inexplicable moral obligation to blog.
I feel what a long time it's been since I rhymed a rhythm.
I feel thoughts and joys and problems burgeoning near craziness.
And I feel absolutely disinclined to write anything original tonight.
So here's a re-post from my old blog, since, in spite of my current inability to corral my hordes of stampeding thoughts, this versification still expresses one of numerous topics battling for top position on the latest edition of Things On My Mind.


Last time I posted it, I called it "Skin Deep." It might need a new title. 


A city on a hilltop stood,
with gleaming walls all round;
and all within were fair and good-
but none remembered there, who should,
that sickness lurked within the wood
that did their walls surround.


Ah, foolish women, foolish men
that gave away their lives!
The gates thrown wide, they let it in.
It came, it saw, it conquered then;
no plague like this had ever been.
They would not long survive.

O'er ruined streets, 'neath crumbling gates,
a stranger came alone.
The cure he knew, and would not wait
a house of healing to create,
to save them from this deadly fate-
return them to their own.

To those he healed he gave to stay
and labor in his stead.
He taught until they knew the way,
then took himself and went away,
but promised to return one day-
when life was made widespread.

Full zealously they started out,
to call the dying in.
With heartfelt pleas, with hopeful shouts,
they all the city went throughout
and left no room for any doubt
that life was offered them.

Many sick came to their door,
and none was turned away.
Some would not drink, and still abhorred 
the life that could have been restored-
ah, ignorance! that brays for war
when peace is on its way.

Yet others came, gave up the fight,
and drank the healing draught.
Not one was lost, all faults despite-
their strength restored, regained their sight;
they longed to spread this great delight-
and learned the doctor’s craft.

But slowly, something strange occurred:
the doctors lost their zeal;
and, safe amongst themselves conferred,
to fill the air with empty words.
The anguished cries outside, unheard-
men died alone, unhealed.

The healers learned to be afraid-
though naught deserved their fear.
Their dread of failure: shadow-made;
of re-infection: fancy-played.
From windows turned their eyes away-
they held their lives so dear.

The patients’ beds stood often bare,
so few were brought inside.
But one gray eve, a young man dared
approach the steep, unwelcome stair;
collapsed outside and begged for care-
“Please, help me live!” he cried.

The doctors stopped and stared, appalled-
this mound of filth, alive?
His bleeding flesh with maggots crawled;
a sight like this none could recall-
so long they’d hid behind their walls-
could their skills, unused, revive?

Said one, “I can’t recall the name
that used to set them free,”
while some knew how, but still refrained-
afraid, repulsed, embarrassed, drained-
but most just looked away in shame,
pretending not to see.

And so it was, ‘neath walls of white
that housed life’s very breath-
the ones who knew the way of light
refused to venture out one night,
and, silent, watched man’s futile fight
engulfed instead by death.

Oh, shame! to those who, washed in blood,
can never die again;
yet fear this world’s transparent flood-
a shackled prince the source thereof-
and blush to speak the name of Love:
of death the only end.