He Has Ills Poem by Eillio Imbasciati

He gets sick,
So he can't take too many rides
He is sick,
Which makes being amongst the public inappropriate
Though neither pale or dangerous,
Daily operation just hasn't panned out for him
Feeling life in his gut,
The hours are a physical appointment and mental parasite, sucking away precious standpoints
He has ills,
They're multiplying,
Yet no cure is at hand,
Only the solemn melody of his self-awareness speaking to him provides any comfort