He once walked tall with springful step ; above six feet and all. Four stairs were but one, and he could run fast to catch a tram or bus. At twenty-four and then at thirty-five the Surgeon’s cutter put paid. It was sarcoma he was told; a softening of the bone it seemed.

Decayed and foreign, the fibrous lumbar bits forced dextrous hands to probe and scoop; to dig and suction out the rot from weakened frame. Sun-strong rays killed off the threat from indefatigable enemy hordes. Though battle won, wars elusive end begrudged. Menace skulked, whilst hopes granite wall held fast, repelling massed invaders.   

Scar tissue, aroused and evil bent, rampaged its own retaliation. Nerve ends, like lightning forked, scorched weary, weight-worn limbs, in tortuous pursuit of reconnection. But message blocked, left legacy of withering power. First cane, then crutch, before dropped-foot, like slab of dead white cod -- the ominous herald of  unregenerate muscle -- led verticals collapse.