As Feeling Is the Highest Art of All

How like a prison is a body lame The mind calls up desires and feels no shame But bones and joints all give us piercing pain And who will pay insurance or take blame? In my prison, I massage as planned I exercise my thighs with rubber bands I touch my toes and shake my own white hands While down the channel runs my little sand I read King Lear and thought the king a fool He did not live nor die as monarchs rule Now I’m stuck inside a structure cruel I’m like the pin which hides inside your jewel The body’s more important than the soul As feeling is the highest art of all