He was ever Herbologist ere priest,
Felt sacred in the living green, Divine!
His thirst for cures and antidotes increased,
Yet plummeted his faith in scripture line.
I was his greatest ever creation,
Brewed only once, so deadly was my blood,
Made to dispatch those long past salvation,
Though toxic, my intentions were all good.
He forged me for the battlefield, for war,
And to the wars I went, o’er land and sea.
Endured much slaying, bravery and gore,
And was stolen by an apothecary.
Herbologists are risk-takers from birth,
And priests will gamble much when spurred by zeal;
This fierce concoction meant there was a dearth,
Of foresight, such devotion did he feel
When he espied a healing wedding made,
To bind two households and to end their fued,
By harmony, all violence would be slayed,
And in his brain perpetual peace ensued.
And yet this purest dream could never be,
He’d long forgotten granting me my powers;
Which Romeo unleashed once he’d bought me,
As he thundered through his final hours.
I dispatched Capulet and Montague,
They laid my bottle between entwined hands.
I wish Friar Lawrence had seen me, then knew-
That I could have released them from death’s bands.
Yet Friar Lawrence ran away from them,
And did not see Romeo had used me,
Yet within his robes he had such tinctures,
To reverse my poison, and set him free,
So it is I lie between their joinéd palms,
Freshly buried by Friar Lawrence’s hands,
Which will, ere long, employ all of their charms,
To dispatch him beyond all living lands.
© Tom Tide 2016