Doctor Love I Am Not

Apothecary, open your doors!
I know it past the hour of decency,
But I beg you…

Open your doors, apothecary!

I will stand here all the night,
I swear it,
Banging the hind of my fist upon your wood,
I don’t care what pain it may cause,
I don’t care what neighbors I wake,
Pale would it be,
To the pang that cripples my heart,

Have mercy, Apothecary!
Pour me an elixir,
Quickly,
Concoct me your best alchemy,
Not with a dash or pinch!
No!
Double your measures!

What ails me??
Surely the most grievous of wounds!

My heart bleeds,
Though no sign of it marks my shirt,
I am bruised,
Though my skin lies the contrary,
And I am wracked to the core,
Though somehow I stand at your stoop,

Apothecary, please , open your doors.

Is it not plain?
The youngest child could diagnose it,
I have lost my love,
And so I have lost my life,
It’s ebbing from me,
And I have not bandage nor dressing to stop it,

I beg you,
Open your doors…

But alas,
Perhaps you do not come,
Because there is no hope,
No remedy or prescription,
For you to fill,

Perhaps I am damned,
Or maybe the fool,
Maybe love lost cannot be mended,
Maybe that’s to be my bitter pill,

If so,
I swallow it knowing,
That I had love,
That I knew love,
And I squandered her still.

Inkling #7:

What is The Seven Thunders?  It is the riddle, it is the rhyme, the song in the wood and the Woodwife’s remorse, the doctor’s report and news of no cure. It is the instrument of life…that life might endure.