Praying For The Sick Poem by Lewis Eron

I'd rather write poetry than cure souls
Stringing pearls to tie my thougts in ordered rows
Than to set their fears, their dreams
As glass gems in a plate breast plate
Hanging before the two tablets of their hearts.

Now God's word comes too easy to be true.
I know too many incantations for opening hearts
And bleeding souls
And divining
The hidden patterns made
By the bitter honey of psychic blood
On food trays, bed pans and the floor -
Children, jobs, bosses,
Wives, war,
And eagles that no longer fly.

But I'm no leech.
So with a counter charm,
A prayerful phrase,
I plug the wound.
They think they're cured,
But I'm still hungry.