Cure

"Measure the gift of the talent at hand
Lest you should take to much; the contraband
States quite clearly you shall have only one,
Beg you I do to submit, and be done!"
Yet hearken to my heart do I from time
To time and listen to the self-made sign
Of my beating pulse; for it is a sure
Gift that I am alive, the very cure
Of death made visible to men in trench
Coats and spyglasses in narrow streets. I
Know that they seek for intrusion, repeat
Clearly your message in this flustered trench.
But as I stand ready with self to part
It pains me to leave it all at the start.

                           Cure, (c) Luke Bennette, April 2012