To purge one's soul from torture, fear,
There is medicine for that I hear,
You take one round, bitter pill,
Without letting any liquid spill.
It travels down your aching throat,
On a little tiny boat,
Which surfaces in acid fire,
And melts away in the pyre.
Man-made magic seeps into your lining,
Searching, searching, and then finding,
The busy spider on a wheel,
With strings attached to make you feel.
Misfortune's told with that wheel's spin,
One round, you will feel a little pin.
The second is remorse, regret,
Why not buy a new pet?
The third is optional at best,
You start to heave and grasp your chest,
The forth, vibrations climbing up,
Reverberating sound in a form of a hiccup.
The fifth is sadness on a platter,
Forcing everything to matter.
And finally, last option still,
It's a headache like a drill.
The spider kicks the wheels and grins,
As needle spins, and spins, and spins.
It lands decisively on four,
And magic travels to that door.
It walks inside and finds a gran,
Rocking in her chair with a fan.
She acknowledges what's best,
And nods at a golden chest.
Inside the chest is a clear vial,
This has to be another trial,
To test the strength of magic inside,
So that your illness will no longer hide.
The grandma's chair is lifted high,
And she lets out a sullen sigh,
The strength is proven once again,
Which means the magic will now gain,
It's access to the lands beyond,
Where illness flies over a pond.
The pointed swords are then drawn,
For illness is a mere pawn,
To enemy we cannot see,
Telling you you're never free,
Even as the magic slays this test,
There remains that one hidden pest,
That will not abandon you.
And it doesn't matter what you do.
YOU ARE READING
P-P-P-Poetry
PoetryMy amateur attempts at writing poetry. Don't expect too much, as this is as silly as it can be. Some though, may end up having deep meaning.
