It was a love-hate relationship
between his medicine and us
The only thing keeping him alive
was slowly, inevitably killing him.
"It's poison”, he'd cry, suffering the effects -
Nausea, pain, dizziness and worse.
His words were true,
It was a poisonous “cure”,
But I tried to deny them anyway.
Too afraid he’d stop taking them
To listen as he bemoaned their toll.
So he choked them down,
More than twenty at a time,
Twice a day, every day, for ten years.
Getting so good at swallowing a fistful of medicine,
That people were impressed at his skill,
Instead of horrified that it took so much
To keep him alive.
He kept swallowing until he could swallow no more.
Death came anyway,
Releasing him from the poisons of medicine and pain,
Ushering him into glory,
And casting me into an ocean of grief.
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