Like The Surgeon's Knife--revised

[waitingforgodet]

Convalescing at home.
But I am not alone.

On my chest, young John Keats.
His romantic Light seeks
the Heart and Love Divine,
still yearned for in our time.

My right, Henry Thoreau.
Rebel against State. No!
Would not embrace the lies.
Genius through Nature’s eyes
glimpsed Redemption and Hope.
The Pine would help us Cope.

My left, Albert Camus.
Wrote of what ails us too.
He showed us our Fall
with our Human Call
for Fraud and Subterfuge
covered by Modern Rouge.

As I lie in my bed,
their Words live in my head.
And like the Surgeon’s Knife
that gave Light to my life.
What Fate that might have been?
Darkness without these men:
No Poems. No Books from Them.