Listen my friends and you will hear
the plight of the chronically ill
Where simple tasks become a chore
and depression lurks behind every door
Open a door we hear you say
but our poor fingers disobey
Twist around to clean up the floor
but our poor muscles dislike this chore
Changing a light bulb — once a simple task
now requires a flashlight
And patience that no longer lasts
So you see dear friends
Enjoy your sprightly steps
and nimble fingers
For in time
you may find
You’re just as brittle
as the rest of us
