Patient in Transition

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They called it a consultation - a word soft and mild,

But I came as a queen who would not be beguiled.
He asked for my story, the root and the vine,
But I fed him the branches, the truth kept in line.

I wanted a wizard, a mind that could glean
The unspoken confession, the whole, unseen scene.
I stood in his temple but prayed to my pride,
And left half my sickness to fester inside.

He worked with the fragments I deigned to provide,
While the monster, in silence, grew certain and wide.
The medicine failed—the true target was missed,
A cure for the lie I had wrapped in my fist.

Now, listen… I’m free from the flesh and its cost,
But the freedom was won by the life that I lost.
The question you ask: “Do they fall sick?” Yes, they do -
But the sickness that masters is the one you outrun true.



So I write from the far side of grace,

A memoir of pride from this desolate place.

Be bold with your healer, be naked, be plain.

A half-told affliction is a self-inflicted chain.

For the all-knowing power you seek to compel,

Is a partnership shattered by the secrets you tell.

I am free from prescriptions, it’s true, and from strife -

For the ultimate cure was the giving of life.

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