Step right up, they said,
with bottles the color of gold,
labels boasting of miracles,
cures crammed into tiny glass jars.
They spoke with honeyed tongues,
voices like warm blankets
wrapping around our fears,
cradling our hope too tightly.
They knew the right words,
the ones to make hands tremble,
to pry open wallets and hearts
a trick older than time.
The concoctions smelled of faith,
tasted like desperation lingering,
but we drank them down anyway,
swallowed trust like a bitter pill.
Not one of them knew
the language of the body,
how cells whisper to each other,
how healing hums quietly within.
Snake oil shimmered like salvation,
but left us thirstier than before;
every promise evaporating
before the bottle ran dry.