Critical Condition

Where is the nerve that meets muscle with bone?

The mind has divorced body and the soul is alone

Cascading through the night, an ocean of wonder

The being has been reduced by unforgiving thunder

Which claps with liberal hands on the face of longevity

Slicing through layers of skin showing no signs of brevity

A pitiful voice limps through, but inhabits no enclave

The poor nerve lays unsuspended, why is it so brave?

When no absolutes are measured, only patterns of gray

And any signs of integrity are met with moral decay

So as the body staggers along the streets of disparity

The singular mind awaits for that moment of clarity