Sure and secure in this pure shallowness of yours,
Keeping notions, devotions and the “right” outlook,
Eager to please the trustees, of an ancient disease,
Please! Off your knees, the guarantees are no one’s to keep.
Take not my word that your herd is absurd, but do start
Ignoring the lores, just open your doors; and I
Can vouch that every pore will explore the magic
Around, that surrounds every sound, every trivia,
Leave the spurious, be curious and one big odd-ball.
Limericks were supposed to be fun,
But I couldn’t write, not even one
That I could call perfect,
I sit back and reflect,
If this poet’s journey is all done.
In the end, you will bend your own head,
Spread the thread of unsaid thoughts instead
Of the lies you mainlined,
So astutely aligned
With the path, that you’ve chosen to tread.
Lakes, like old mirrors,
Show me the hole where those tears
Eroded my soul.
Will they be forced to live
In obscure sentences all over,
About infected sores of the heart?
Will they start to give up
And start throwing their humdrum’s
At each other, over the internet, for fun.
Or will they try to pass,
Obscure synonyms put together with tacks,
As poems; or will they hatch paperbacks.
My votes will be shittier than yours.
My youth will be angrier than yours.
My women will pop more babies than yours.
My government will be eerier than yours.
My blades will be bloodier than yours.
My fire will be smellier than yours.
I’ll get more flesh of your women and kids
than you’ll ever get of mine;
My language is purer, my land is holier
and my gods are more divine.
While the other patients would be done in ten to fifteen minutes, she would be there for at least an hour. Partly because, on any given day, she was probably the only sane person he’d get to have a conversation with.
He really liked listening to the story of the first time she had had the attack; just when she was getting out of the rose garden. The startled vendors and other people ran away, stared from far, scared of her. Traffic stopped because she sat right in the middle of the road to weep and moan, howl and wail.
She spoke of the rose garden in other contexts too. In fact, she spoke of the rose garden, a lot. Every time she spoke of it, her eyes gazed into the distant nowhere and her voice went calm and she would trail off the middle of a sentence. She had said that she actually felt really good every time she went to the garden. The moment she stepped out of it, however, she’d have the worst attacks she had had.
As a doctor, he knew all this was just coincidental and had no clinical value. As her friend (could he call himself that?), he knew that there was a genuineness in her voice. As a curious person, he felt that there was something in the rose garden worth exploring. He wouldn’t be able to have his peace of mind if he did not go to the rose garden, himself.