None have known Joe Doe, MD.
GRID’s grip drew him into its obscurities.
Dr. Doe met his interest, chasing its mutable manifestations.
In command of the hundred,
the centurion’s bravado charged into battle
at the prospect of valiance.
Yet mere man
found it elongated into an engagement
The one hundred’s first attempt—to eradicate the scourge—
mangled in defeat.
Burial of the century.
The centurion’s manner dashed among the hopes
of his fallen
Dr. Doe’s sworn loyalty endures,
while his distance finds everyone anonymous.
The phantasms plagued,
Covered in a shirt and tie,
shadows keep him unkempt.
Behold the visage.
The one-hundredth leans
against the waiting room wall,
affixed among the polished pine.
You’re more than those thousand words.
You’re more than a feather of the quill that activated his certificate.
You’re more than a body, examined—upon a hardened, uncompassionate slab.
You’re more than the sum of your symptoms + side effects.
You’re more than the ignorance
in masked nurses’ eyes.
You are more.