Elderly white robed men walk through the sunlight flooded hall
Their scythed fingers arcing towards their helpless thrall
held slave by desperation and fear of The old man upstairs
Blinded and bound, sense stolen by prayers.

The smell of death holds heavy over the hearts of its clients
Their business in life, their feverish hearts stumbling to sleep
The elders ask their God(s), they consult their texts, they do not know what corrupts you
Their forked tongue spews dissent as to your fault, they like you, watch time tick away.  

The blood of the masses is unseen by those who hands deal in lives
Or being seen it is well hidden by those who would rather not see
Do the Sisters kiss you with their lips of morphine and lull you with words that your spirit revives
At least the insane can see the sanity in the madness as their fixated smiles bare witness and warning with glee.  

The Surgeons grim scalpel lobotomises you, but you are so numb already you don't even feel it
Would you like some more morphine with that coffee, or cyanide to go?  
You hear a scream down the corridor, dare you look, dare you see?  
How quickly is a curtain pulled and drug found to ease your unwanted human feelings?  

Where do you think they take that poor retch? I hear it was Jimmy from Ward A, cancer they say.
Fire, earth, wind and water, they'll put him somewhere.  But where will he go?  
Did he believe it was all a nightmare, that he had yet to wake, yet to live?  
Did he squeeze his eyes tight enough shut that he would open them again one day anew in the promised land?

Hear their sermon now, drink their venom and christen yourself The Fallen, for you have fallen far from the light.  
Great is the greater good you think you serve, great is the lie you live, great is the fallacy you serve.
Stained black is the surgeons gown from blood once rich, but he just smiles and jokes; "ah, my favourite colour!"
For all their lore, their faith, their power.  They cannot find me a cure.  

Aesculapius is not to blame, nor Luther or any figure, society or deity, we must find the strength to change before its too late.
No purgatory awaits those who fail, no reprimands, no ailment greater than guilt, the cure is conviction.
I am no preacher, nor leecher like the most. I know only of what would be our shared fate.   
For none of us will be healthy whilst we suffer from such affliction.