The only symptoms that we see
Are those expressly chosen for our eyes
The diagnosis we arrive at
Has been shaded and shaped
By clues deliberately dropped there for us
And even more by what hasn't been shown
So we recommend treatment
Not knowing
Anything, really
Not the nature of the disease
Nor its real symptoms
We have no hope of finding a cure
And we genuinely, fervently believe
That we are the enlightened ones
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Tagged: Tags Poetry Vanity
Published by Beleaguered Servant
Owen "Beleaguered" Servant (a/k/a Sibelius Russell) writes poetry mostly, with an occasional pause to have a seizure.
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No Kidding!! Happy Holidays !
Beautiful. Well put <3