Like The Surgeon's Knife

 

Yes, confined in my home.
But I am not alone.
My right, Mr. Thoreau.
Rebel at some cost, though.
Philosophical, wise.
Led us through nature’s eyes
toward redemption and hope.
The tree would help us cope.
My left, Albert Camus;
on my chest, John Keats too,
who wrote of love sublime.
Still yearned for in our time.
Camus showed our fall
through our human call
for lies and subterfuge
covered by modern rouge.
As I lie in my bed,
their words live in my head.
And like the surgeon’s knife
that saved my own short life.
The fate that might have been:
No poems and books from them.