Feathers On My Breath
Through the operating doors,
devolves tragedy like no other.
An unending trail of blood,
on hands of a worried mother.
The operation a total success,
doctors that weave life baskets.
Death that creeps beneath them,
sealing patients into their caskets.
Piano chords bring in House,
unshaken by the finality of life.
The love for science prevalent,
incisions by that saviour knife.
Leading blindly into disease,
tears that manifest from roses.
Chalkboard guesses washed away,
an office door that never closes.
Sherlock Holmes of diagnosis,
flawed through careless thought.
Outdone by victorious immortality,
there was something he forgot.
Heart stopped during testing,
wrong medicine made it worse.
The letter she wrote for daddy,
folded neatly inside her purse.
The rain falls upon his collar,
from heaven high clouds above.
Prognosis unsolved by reason,
for the truest cure was love.
Copyright © Marcello Colasurdo | Year Posted 2010
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