Monday, November 16, 2009

Renewable Poem

When the sickness was at its worst,
and I was closest to death,
a stranger cloaked in scarlet
pushed a foul concoction into
my mouth. It burned its way
down my throat, bleeding into
my veins. My strength regained,
my color returned, my life renewed.
The stranger merely smiled and
left the room. He spoke nothing
of payment, but I do not doubt
that I will see him again. He
always has a price, which
differs from soul to soul.

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