Challenge
A poem about being sick. Pick an illness, any illness.
THEE
"Where have you been?" Asks the foreign one.
*Silence*
"There are scales in your eyes. Do they not cause you much pain and grief?"
"They do," said the gentile.
"Would you have me take a look?"
"Many have done so and know no cure. I am tired, let me sleep."
"It is only noon-day."
"Yes, but it is always night-tide for me. I see not, yet can feel the shades of gloom."
"You have never known light?"
"No."
"Verily I say to you, I AM THEE."
And a good wind came rushing by.
"...May I?"
"Stand up and spit out that dirt."
*Pfffttt* "...Hold me..."
And the scales fell from his eyes like lead feathers.
"You are no longer a slave to the evil one."
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