Dear John

Dear (Saint) John.

I write you from a place of concern

I’ve noticed my brains are on fire. They burn.

The smoke alarm blared as I ruminated today

And I rushed to find the source down every hallway

I ‘d never have guessed that the origin was me

But as I ran past the mirror, my smoking lid was plain to see

It’s a constant black stream clouding up at my peak

It’s gotten so thick that I choke; I can’t speak.

These thoughts twist and they writhe at an unusual pace

The darkness starts somewhere though I can’t peg the place

I’d always thought the blackness was safely tucked away

But there must be a crack in my matter of grey

A small tiny split hidden under my hair

That leaks out these things I’d rather not share

It frightens me to think the whole world might know

this darkness within, for I fear it might grow.

what if it spreads far and vast like a plague

And it begins to multiply at an exponential rate?

Like a zombie that seduces the neck with a bite

My gloom begins with a small spark that soon will ignite

It will explode and consume like Vesuvius to Pompeii

The apocalypse will be all my fault I daresay

The Mayans could never predict this strange outcome

That the end would be a result of my tiny brain chasm

But, I digress with all of this gloomy speculation

Dear John, I write because of your saintly vocation

I’ve been told by countless others of your gift

In the healing of peers with a similar black rift

I am told if I simply consume you each day

That this cloud will dissipate and slowly fade away

So in hopes of saving this world from my doom

I eagerly digest your medicinal bloom.

I am quite hopeful, and I must report

Also quite thankful that you offer your wort.