"Come, sit down." the healer says
as her patient gazes emptily.
Clinic was dim, table's a mess
"Here's a cup of tea."

The healer dusts her hands on her coat
stained from making medicine.
"What are you here for today?"
"Same as last time, but I have caved in."

"I know just what you need,"
the healer unsheathes a frame.
The patient woefully sighs and
sobs without a bit of shame.

"I can't look again, it reminds me of her!"
to a portrait of a mother and daughter.
"Don't worry," says the healer,
"Tomorrow, it will get better."

The clinic was her art studio;
the medicine were the paintings.
The healer was an artist—
an empath in broken things.

"Through art, dismantle your heart
embrace the facts of your pain.
The wounds of the past shall heal
and your love for life shall remain."