Steven Cooke

Rookie (01-04-1958 / Sheffield)

A Flawed Prophet - Poem by Steven Cooke

I am a successful surgeon
but In reality I am a failure.
For I pay for the company of life.
I pay to be human,
pay for the understanding
that my patients receive for free.

I am the geek in the corner
the wall paper that eyes don’t see.
My bond is with God
for he shows me his creation
and I must correct his mistakes.

Vanity is to say such things
but the sick will come to my door.
They gamble that I could be a saviour
for fear is anointed by hope.

The good and the bad
will sell their convictions.
My hand can cheat
the cards which have been dealt,
and my face belongs to
this poker game,
we call life.

I am the fall guy too
who will walk down the corridor to hopeful eyes.
But remember where there is God
the Devil exists too
and you will judge me.

For I must bare my soul
in the darkness of defeat
that tells your relatives that I lost.

I failed to grab the hand of life
which held the royal flush
that no player can defeat,
and I will feel your doubts
that perhaps I am not
the perfect prophet you thought me to be.

In truth I am a glorified mechanic.
I am the surgeon that repairs your vices,
I am the bloody hands that remove your pain.
I can make you beautiful
I can change your heart,
though I need the sacrifice of the departed to help.

And when age threatens your life
money will save the chosen few,
In the illusion of immortality.
Though time will always be the clown
that will laugh at you in the mirror.

I am a tinker of time
who fears the night.
I shake hands with the dead,
receive tributes from the living
and somewhere in between I see the dawn.

Sanity is a lonely place for me.
My indiscretion is grateful for her apartment
for I need her beauty to take away today
and a shower to wash away mankind.

She removes my pain with love
so I can feel human from this butchers table.
Sodom and Gomorra’s a small price to pay
for my patients to see
the sun for one more day.

God never gave me good looks
but he gave me a steady hand.
A hand that can caress your heart
for I am a maverick that puzzles him.

In truth I could be a monster,
I will not cry when you die.
Blood is just another day,
though I hate to lose
as all gamblers will tell you.

But who amongst you would care
about a stranger who gives you life.
For in truth even the Devil
would make me a hero,
as long as I save a sinners life.

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Poem Submitted: Wednesday, June 19, 2013

Poem Edited: Thursday, June 20, 2013

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