Aegrescit medendo (the cure is worse than the disease)

(based on suggestions from @margolanagan, @realnixwilliams, @greenspace01)

Mourning is no rollercoaster.

A flat, straight road towards

a flat horizon. Vanishing point

does not curve with tears or songs.

If there was a cure for kindness

I’d dose up everyone I know.

Morning is no miracle.

Sun is a cheap chocolate coin

Floury and greasy; a waste of calories.

Death tastes like low cocoa mass.

If there was a cure for grief,

I’d choose the blue pill.

Mourning is no sprint to the finish.

Take foot, place in front of other foot.

The thought of it is enough:

even a cheap sun gleams precious.

If there was a cure for fear

I’d pick chocolate over snake oil.

Morning is no uncommon birth.

Unpeeled gold foil coins prompt

surprised smiles at clichéd lining.

Kids like cheap chocolate.

If there was a cure for their pleasure

I’d criminalise it and flush the drugs.

______________________________________

Today's poem is based on suggestions from three peeps:

• @margolanagan: “I think there definitely should be some gold foil in there somewhere.”
• @realnixwilliams: “walking along long, straight roads towards a flat horizon.”
• @greenspace01: “Death, rebirth, and chocolate as an antidote to fear”

I was talking to a friend recently about whether if there was a cure for grief, if you could skip the whole thing, would you take the pill? Or is it a necessary process? The blue pill in the Matrix is the one that keeps you in blissful ignorance. I'm a bit ambivalent, I have to admit. I think I'd probably take the pill. Or maybe - yes well, let's just say I'm undecided.

Anyway, this poem reflects my mixed emotions about feeling vs. not feeling, about how numbing pain usually results in numbing pleasure as well.

And how sucky it is that the cliche is true: time really is the only moderator of grief. Stupid cliches.