THEY told me I would not be whole again,
that this now was my life;
that I could neither drive, nor work,
nor stay long in the bright sunlight
I WAS to be a creature, then, of illness:
I was this disease --
That I could look on life from inside walls,
But never as I'd please
BUT SCIENCE, it turns out, is human:
Well-intentioned, incomplete --
The life I've had turned out quite differently,
And rather much more sweet
BUT WINDOWS, still, are memories:
I look through them, remembering,
That I am lucky every time
I'm exiting, or entering
FOR THESE, our bodies, finally fail:
They are not made to long survive,
But this one's gone three decades since
They told me this at
Twenty-five
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