You have a thief’s hands, you do,
a lover’s lips, a liar’s tongue
and a drunk’s sure hand for the cure.
You’re an artist and a surgeon—
how often have I let you
perform your magic upon me,
severing lips from hope, feet from truth
and painting my eyes shut?
I know you, I do;
I know you as I know the way
pain runs slow and sweet
along my broken back;
the way I drain and flow
and mold to your will,
yearning less, wanting more, remaining mute;
the way I lay helpless in your gaze,
anesthetized but oh, so alive
as I stare back, awake and alert,
searching for you, searching for me,
searching for the surcease of I-don’t-know-what,
but searching all the same.
We know, don’t we?
Thank you for reading A quiet tale of a scalpel and a brush. I sincerely hope you have enjoyed it and I humbly appreciate your visiting the Book of Pain. As always, I look forward to your comments.
© 2013 by John Etheridge; all rights reserved. This poem and accompanying notes are licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License. This applies to all original work found on this site, unless noted otherwise. The attribution claimed under the license is: © 2013 by John Etheridge, https://bookofpain.wordpress.com.