Now hearts may heal, but muscles, mighty scarred
may lose their strength and cease to operate
sufficiently. This life is mighty hard
and grief, a monster, given time, ablates
all living flesh. We wither from within,
eroding ever on like porous stone;
our corpses cut with caves. We wallow in
black pus and bile, bitter and alone.
Salvation lies beyond our weary hands.
The end — unlovely, yes — is preordained.
Exhausted bodies fail at life’s demands,
but, thankfully, this pathogen’s contained:
For when we die, we take our grief away
and others may swim on to better days.