Medicine Man

I have medicine for a sickness that has not yet arrived on the world stage. A talented wasting disease will strangle asthmatics, cripple the resident strong man, and steal countless memories to the point where reminiscing becomes trivia. The debut of it's macabre touch will disfigure faces and hunch backs within the second week. Children will crawl four years past the usual benchmark of upright mobility. Patients have the option of weeping with family or spending their final hours weeping before physicians spinning contaminated blood in a centrifuge. Their usual protocols will be no more effective than gag snakes in peanut butter brittle. When this inexplicable plague breaks forth upon an unsuspecting population of doltish pleasure seekers, I will heal them in pairs. They will speak my name only in ceremonies and write it only in calligraphy. Touch the infirmities and treat the open sores. Contagion passes through the weaker, so I am determined to present myself stronger. Look into my eyes and fall in love. Breath out every malady into my nostrils and watch as I burn it up like a furnace. Pockets of resistant bodies inflamed with tender flesh shall tremble when they come to understand the nature of my apothecary. Unwind your bandages and climb out of your hospital gurneys. Sever any tube of unknown transfusion. Disconnect from all beeping monitors and receive the love of a daring stranger. Gaze upon my museum of crutches. I will loosen the tongue of the mute and so much more. For now you prefer well leveraged. You dote over experts, and share your bed with names that peddle influence. The day is coming when an ambulance will have greater numbers than trains, cabs, and busses combined. In that day you will acknowledge my miracle. My love has removed your shame. Confess me as your healer without a gift or payment. This will not be recorded as your exploit. My hand is already upon the pulsating hate that germinates within your hidden fear. When heaven favors me, I will extract it before your eyes. We are not in control. All must do as they are bidden. Every plant sprouts according to it's design. The late spring will show each man of which harvest he belongs.