A sick person is a millstone
in a house of weak hearts.
For nerve gives poise
it is reason to fight out,
emaciated societal moors
and self-seeking minds,
to stand like a rock
in a jungle of interests
where one cannot ask,
for ego-trees to cure
ailments classifying outlines hazy,
of joys illusive in a life
of unsettled frame of acts,
a man is unable to re-enact,
in chaotic times,
as fingers move on
electronic buttons to rewrite,
history of confused man,
seeking light in darkness
of a long age.
