Minus a needle or lance,
Declaring your head was askew,
Upon you, their mind, it advanced,
Experiment theirs, became you.
Stormy your thoughts from within,
Your circuits would cross and divide.
Resetting your ends they’d begin
With chemistry pimping your ride.
Responsiveness, yours now delayed,
Shuffled and slurred was your way.
Your mind, up for you, was remade,
Erased and re-taped every day.
Then slipping away from our view,
That evening, your final ascent.
No more “medication” for you,
You gave it all up. It was Lent.
Your beautiful thing,
Pour over His crown,
Return to the King,
Surrender your ground.
inspired by Mark 14:3-9 “And while he was at Bethany in the house of Simon the leper,as he was reclining at table, a woman came with an alabaster flask of ointment of pure nard, very costly, and she broke the flask and poured it over his head. There were some who said to themselves indignantly, “Why was the ointment wasted like that? For this ointment could have been sold for more than three hundred denarii and given to the poor.” And they scolded her. But Jesus said, “Leave her alone. Why do you trouble her? She has done a beautiful thing to me. For you always have the poor with you, and whenever you want, you can do good for them. But you will not always have me. She has done what she could; she has…
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From the ashes,
Where the cash is,
Booms and crashes,