Anatomy


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What am I but a bag of bones,

The thrill of a pumping heart,

A heaving chest?

The fingers- just joints and skin.

 

What a weak and feeble creation,

Yet it is functioning all the same;

Look at me move.

Hear me breathe.

 

What’s driving this device of consumption?

The world is polluted,

Murderers and rapists roam the street,

My veins still carry my flowing blood.

 

What’s to a body?

If I can’t see it and I can’t touch it does my brain exist?

If I can poke my hand under my rib cage is that enlightenment or a freakshow?

What is the body’s function if not to carry out the mind’s tasks?

 

And what’s in a mind?

A universe?

An emptiness, nudged by the stimulus of society?

Where, in this corpse am I?

 

What do I control?

Look at my fingers move.

Watch me walk.

Left foot, right foot. Left foot, right foot.

 

If I can’t see it, and I can’t touch it, does progress exist?

I must only look behind me.

Wars happen. Death happens.

I keep walking.

 

Why me? Why not me?

If I can’t see it and I can’t touch it, does my heart exist?

Look at me stretching out my hand to you.

What am I seeking?

 

Watch me move my arms to embrace you.

Love.

If I can’t hear it, and I can’t see it does my heart exist?

When I put my ear against your chest:

Faith. 

 

 

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