Crept in the surgeon from the ashen winds Peaceful, baleful autumn fire A descent climbing ever higher.
A special case to him it seemed, starched white His breathy steam corroborated. The nurses rush βtween bed and ****, checking Vitals of lacking that but the enigma Curiouser and, oh, the blank screen displayed it.
There, as sight, the network of bones, all disposed To their center, by blood and vein, all there through.
What caught the eye, a screaming white blot In the thick of his bare cavity A cold urn, well wrought Had in its mouth a thousand streaming shards Burning, pumping all the same by some miracle That rigid effaced youth and flesh Taking its gestaltβs place.
A nurse approach in ample fit to begin, Crack his stern starch baritone, there he burst Take him away; nothing is wrong Amateur at best, irreclaimable at worst.