almost certainly foreboding doom,
For the last time I was here,
I felt like the recipient of someone else's ire,
drugged first with coloured perplexities,
only to be injected with liquefied oddities
He now smiles wily,
As I sit on the other end foolishly,
Trying best to describe my pain,
While he nods in an observation so vain,
He, I know will pill me to death,
Or either pin me, in an attempt to put me to rest.
And now that he has heard me out,
He stands and stares with a weird pout,
You don't mind the syringe, do you?
He says, without bothering to explain this flu,
I sit unamused by his offer,
This was but coming, and there is but no stopper.
The thought shudders and numbs my sense,
that a needle may any moment pierce my fleshy fence,
It will hurt and make me quail,
I might also become psychologically frail.
While still uncertain about this dreadful remedy,
I agree and sulk melancholy.
The nurse is here, the needle soon in,
Afraid, I begin hurtling abuses deep within,
I hum, I pray as it all begins to pass,
Until the syringe is just an empty mass,
And the doctor, he smiles, another tally he lines,
With me, this is his month's needle nine.
Until the syringe is just an empty mass,
And the doctor, he smiles, another tally he lines,
With me, this is his month's needle nine.
