The Healing World

The Healing World

The darker nature of the healing world,
hidden down corridors, behind closed doors,
where wounded soldiers are stashed and stained,
unhealing in their wounds,
seeping sickness no one can cure.
T.V. crews tour the immaculate halls reporting
miracles and hasty cures,
never seeing behind the wall in the darkness,

a young man lays thin and shrunken, tubes in play,
infection creeping, the dirty secret no one can heal.
Helpless in a paralyzed body broken by war–a hero saving our Country,
now forgotten in a stagnate pool of politics and rhetorical power.
Laying in a bed, tubes sprouting from his neck–
“No food or water by mouth,” the doctor says,
“Not until I heal this gnawing hole in his neck.”
She presses her healing hands together in assurance that he’ll survive,
but 16 months go by. Incision after incision she tries, hands bloody with a
hero’s wounds, she’s prepared to cut until he dies.
Stalwart in her professional stance,
confident she has the knowledge to grant another chance.
Nurses hang their heads and whisper, “get him out,”
while government stalls, trying to close the exit routes.
Sweep it under, where darkness lies,
in the moldy corridor of mistakes and research.
In the name of society‘s betterment, a few must die, so many can live.
Sweep him under, where all the other secrets lie.
Blooded hands, dripping patterns in the evening sun,
in this place where wounded soldiers come to find healing,
among their countrymen, they should be safe from agendas and plans.
How many must suffer, wither and die,
forgotten behind the wall, the closed doors, behind the whispers
of a few chosen to read the filed reports?
War never changes, it’s always the same, not about lives saved or lost,
but about power, about political gain.
It’s strange how the heroes change–from the dusty soldier dodging firefights,
and roadside bombs, to the men and women in the alabaster halls and domed cathedrals,
with silver tongues and velvet walls.
The darker nature of the healing world, unprepared, untrained, unskilled to touch the young wounded, the brave and the strong. The healers turn their hearts, their backs to the
soldier’s cries to work on genetic research, to win, to be recognized.
They are knighted with accolades, and ribbons,
while the real hero dies.


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