Heal Thyself O Patient - IV

In prison, and bereft of all defence, But my Healer, graver than ever ere, Swirls his chair round, yon of window to stare As if to get inspired from Providence. More of a dumb than mute, I curse my fate, But happy he feels that it’s my left hand, We’ll amputate it if we cannot mend, What, what? I ask, my mouth an open gate. We’ll start with anti-Cox, let it take long, If you stick to treatment, you’ll sure get cured, Soft tissue bone cancer I hope it’s not, It looked he played a loose game of Ping Pong, But what’s not in one’s hand ought 'tbe endured, He vaguely kept everything to my lot. Vague were his ways, vague as his weird know-how— Of kind that make from mole hill huge mountain, I ask him once again to well explain, Here’s what he said with flourish and a bow: There’s a graveyard of local infection, And a cyst envelopes it like a fort, Fight ensues, there’s settlement out-of-court, Bur why worry it all, time to take action. The cyst was hence removed, its stems and roots, Biopsy tests done still gave not a clue, But all follow up had to be gone through, Cost and concern, me left with bitter fruits, Does today’s tech help, hinder all the more? A mixed bag of debates rage—needless lore. _______________________________________ Crown of sonnets | 03.11.2012, revised July 2023| Poet’s note: Here are sonnets VII and VIII of a sequel of ten sonnets constituting one single poem called a crown of sonnets. The last line of the preceding sonnet is repeated as the first line of the next sonnet, but not verbatim; nor is the first line of the first sonnet is repeated as the last line of the tenth as is. The sestets are either a quartet and a couplet or two sets of three-lined Terza Rima. Hurt is the place from where light enters, and it did, I realized after my long-drawn medical treatment.