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'What is', he asked,
'this thing called cancer? '
An evil cell, expertly masked,
with patience, unsurpassed?
It wakes one day
from hibernation,
and starts its journey
of ravenous proportions.
You may, no question,
call it oncogene,
a cell with traits of wrath
and wild distortions
of known biology,
where number forty-six,
our noble chromosomes,
just does not count,
as cells of true malignancy
will vary and adapt
to all the chemo
and to ionising radiation.
We never will get victory
with tools too dull
and logic that is brittle.
Capitulation is
our unloved destiny
and it has reached
our lonely hearts.
'Is there an answer
to the sourge ', you ask
I say, perhaps
for all is known
about initial stages,
its true beginnings
and its seed of death.
To fight this cancer
is a thankless task,
it's paid the wages
of imbeciles in suits
who earn their keep
until your final breath
succumbs to tyranny.
No thought is wasted on
the image of efficiency,
you toe the line
and do not reminisce.
Indeed, you see deficiency
and luddites in cahoots,
when it is there,
in front of you,
a chronic lack, no less
of something called ascorbate,
the guardian of collagen.
Now you begin your quest
to count each lowly clue.
And if you do arrive their first
and find the golden goose,
some little guys will point
down to the tracks your feet have made
and tell you, smiling to your face
that bubbles bearing promises all burst.
Herbert Nehrlich
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