The mind stays sharp—
a blade untouched by rust
thoughts streaming
through the dim corridor
of memory
clear
relentless.

The heart beating strong,
a river carving
through worn stone
undaunted—
flowing
knowing no end.

But the body—
the body
a house abandoned
timbers bending
skin thinning
like paper—
fingers tired
as wind-worn
branches.

We live—
not in sinew
not in bone,
but in the fire
that refuses to burn out—
the light
against the dark—
and forget
this house abandoned.