Stumbling both here and there like a blind dog,
Because his illness leaves him with “brain fog”
In popular expression. Former skill,
Alacrity of mind, has blunted, dulled,
As he proceeds forth like a damaged vessel,
Barely seaworthy, mortar under pestle
Pressure besieged—hull pierced, though double hulled.
This illness may not kill him—not so fast!
But so constricts the movement of his thought,
That it may not jump to the place it ought,
Limbo trussed—how much longer may he last?