That was my Rest, each one.
Who Cares for the Doctor — A Sightseer’s Poem
The Mechanical Phasing; Tardy, Who Could Care, When You Do Rest?
Who Cares for the Doctor when their time has come to Pass?
Who will care, whence the time was sprung by unclotted Grease
Comes to a sudden stop, by ill Duress,
And little particles that grade the System
Beyond Marrow and Tone —
Who will pay that heed when the carer comes to their Ends?
. — —
Who can care for the Doctor when it isn’t me myself, doing So —
Abiding that due rest, that rample steel; that clinic Stance
To the debtors of life beseeching, life taking Away
Who Will Care? Who Could Care?
Truly, care, for you at your end; when the day’s Practice
Is already disquieted and Lonesome.
. — —
A Slave to charm the crucible; they cannot heal or Weld
By their own hands unto Themselves.
This word — this medicinal Canal,
Which Births the Begetting Foremost,
Dyes and staves their hands, enlisting Them
To some bluster, riddled and Chimed —
Doctoring, the sire that hilts Them
At first accord of duty, is no longer There
At final peace.
. — —
What must you see? Sightseer Seen —
What ’tis the canal you rummage Around
In melanic jest, for a fervent Seeing,
Till untimely Behest.
;- “Sweated, I was to refrain no lumping Hubris,
For my throat was strained from cold Zeal,
Long before I was set out to the rest, of these Here,
Physicians; Sweating Again,
The Mechanical Phasing; Tardy.
Ask you, ask me that same Question,
Who could care for me, during my peaceful Rest?
When the time should come, I would’ve Long
Dipped into my slump De-Press,
By the incision of Globe-Clocks,
And finding myself There,
I couldn’t care for that Care,
For I had given it all away. They're — right There,
To each one, I sired the rapture away From;
That was my Rest, each one, to send oft Quaker
Away, and bridge them all back Home.
Was my Rest — But Shhh! Let them not hear that Now.”
. — —
[Interject, without that, and inquirer's voice, is still repeating here — Quacking]
What is sworn, for you to appeal Yourself
With this glazing frock, set before You
In blue aids, and bracing Browns,
Does that shock none before the Core?
What is sworn inside of You,
To remain content, in the Malady —
Jutted and pressed out — from each and Every
One of Them?
Tell me this, Doctor,
If the zeal is Golden,
And the broaching a finish Teal,
What succumbs a Doctor
Away into a lively passion Elsewhere;
For all that is touched by You,
Surely quivers in the fabricated Patterns,
Of Melanstic tones, towing the blue to affront You
Before that touch is down and Done.
Doctor, aren’t you one of the Hosts?
Surely now, you cannot rest, even in your peaceful Rest;
For this Doctor, behest and the best set is always Needed
Even in your divine, tardy Rest.
Who Can Care for the Doctor; a life had in Earnest,
To the serenity and respite of them All.
Who could care for you, but you and you’re Tender-Touching,
Even at the End…
Only for you; Only You.
Only You…
A Piece of Similar Zeal:
Marches Of Gold; Our Publication:
Come To Medium:
As ever, Dear Reader.