The idlest gesture of an arm,
However slight, is born
Of some livid tissue's catastrophe.
Human action, seeming free,
Is finite engine of a subatomic will.
Only death is still.
We are prodigies of helpless motion,
As breakers to the ocean—
The disjointed music of a limb
Plays at the world's whim.
For all our intermittent grace
We are a spastic race.
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