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{^/uf&iciany??.
THE PHYSICIAN
The wings of Hermes are not on his heels,
Nor the staff of Aesculapius in his hand.
In this man is no glow of Divinity, though
He would have the world think, ?Surely there is.?
He is not God, though at times he thinks it so.
Not his is the power of life and death.
He is but a tool in the hands of the Master.
?Physician, heal thyself,? bow down in humility, Oh,
Look to your God for His grace to give you A humble heart and healing hands.
Deflate your ego. Come to grips with truth!
Be healed, that in turn, you may heal too.
THE WHIPPING-BOY
At long last
I stand before the world, stripped of my identity.
Ashamed of my nakedness, I think to write, but the words
Transfer from the pen to page as blank spaces in the book.
To paint, alas the colors fade before the canvas dries.
To sing, the sounds well-up but do not emit through mute lips.
To dream, the dream a nightmare of twisted truths.
Oh! Wait, my eyes, the windows of my sould, are still alive!
But though they beg your selfish, guilty soul for pity
They blank against the granite hardness of a heart ?sans merci!
The guilt is yours, not mine, but I am bid to pay the debt.
Do you know, and knowing, care, that I am now a formless thing?
I think, ? not so!