My footsteps echo in the halls

Almost emptied for the night.

Yet behind these cold white walls

Are many a gruesome sight.

Fevered faces turn to red,

Others turned an ashen gray,

Pain here reigns and joy has fled

And never can be coaxed to stay.

I slip inside, close the door.

My work here they mustn't see.

If they did then nevermore

Could I set these patients free.

For my cure, in their small minds

Is aberrant and ill-fate;

But I must help, and be kind,

Even if it calls their hate.

Every illness I can end,

Stop the festering despair.

Every patient I attend,

Is the better for my care.

But, alas, they cannot see,

And condemn with every breath.

Me, who acts with only mercy,

They call the Angel of Death.

The cure for all illness has to do with consumption.

If we are what we eat, this no doubt rings true.

When we consume bitterness, are we not embittered?

Some find the cure in their faith

While others find it in poison

But to be proactive

Before any illness enters you

The cure is to stop eating the animals including animal mucous…

Check out: "What the Health" & Dr. Sebi