A tough muscle, the heart...
A bully, really, in philosophical jargon;
Brains, balls, hearts, lungs, feet and hands...
And the surmountable rest weighs in about 74kg.
Not a disappointing weight, by all accounts -
One should at least take the time to weigh correctly,
Normal is preferable to its counterpart,
By most accounts again.
And then the sickness comes...
Everything is fine but me,
Any measure to remove the pain
Is compared indifferently to all other ills,
Put me to rest and let the rest of the world grow still.
Stop the world I want to get off.
No offence required, no defence necessitated,
The sickness is already here,
The rats and cockroaches are awry,
A little army of death,
Worms and ammonia awaiting,
Sharp teeth, mild temperament and opposable digits
No match for regeneration, cellular mutation and patience;
The sickness is here, ready or not;
Whatever doesn't kill you will cause you cancer...
Madness is a blessing begotten of poets and philologists;
And anyone else who could muster the effort.