Stacks and piles, of a hundred files
Pages and pages, stored over ages
By the hopeless valetudinarian
Who believed with a shrug
That he had caught the love bug.
And what detailed log he kept.
Logged every hour he’d never slept,
And dreamed, while still awake,
Ten hours daily, give or take
Very specific, his symptoms said,
In cursive calligraphy they read-
“..Then shivered in the gentle breeze”
“..Was weakened in my wobbly knees”
But a symptom he’d never comment-
A slight speech impediment.
All the words he ever had to say,
In diaries were tucked, neatly, away.
And though the bug, that nasty pest-
Never really did manifest,
Left in silent heartches, marooned,
Yet never truly, fully, immune.
Pic credit: Charl Folscher