I spoke to a doctor in the City of David.
He told me to be kinder to myself,
he told me to roll in mud to save my skin,
to sleep deep through the night
and wake to infant skies.

I spoke to him over a flagon of wine.
He told me that the game of words is bunk,
that mathematics is the new empire of tongue.
He said: “Ed – reinvent yourself
in the language of galaxies,

why write of escape and sonnets to the skies,
in words chained down upon the Earth?”
He said: “the universe is no country song;
it'll take more than whiskey
to understand it all.”

I spoke to him over too many cigarettes.
He told me not to worry so much.
He told me that the weight of my sighing
caused greater threat to  life,
than these poisons ever could.

I spoke to the doctor outside Fingal's Cave.
He wept for the kindness of current sight,
he wept for all the miseries of time.
He told me: “never stifle
what is meant for expression.”

He spoke to me about indefinite time.
I heard him mention God in brief passing,
but in hindsight, it may have been a sneeze.
He said: “Ed – find Jacob
and ask him for a ladder.”

Upon the sorrow of the newspapers,
I turned to my faithful doctor once more.
I asked him: “why do I stutter through life?
Pray, stay here and tell me please,
why I take your advice,

for a happier life.” He shifts in his suit,
he shrugs in my gaze, he ruffles his hair
and walks from the frame. I am left with a note
and a pill to ****,
he wrote me:

“We have distant memories of older wisdom,
we are the bringers of divine intervention.
Do not focus upon temporal wealth,
nor come to me for your mental health.
Forget set memories of old advice,
all dogmas are but melting ice.
The books cry out from upon their shelf:
'to stay alive, be kind to yourself.'”