Torso

In the quiet cathedral of the torso,
Ribs arch like ancient stone buttresses,
Guarding the soft organ‑garden where breath
And pulse entwine in a steady, hidden rhythm.

The chest, a broad‑shouldered hall, holds the heart—
A ruby‑toned drummer marching to life’s beat,
While lungs expand like sails catching the wind
Of every sigh, every whispered confession.

Below, the abdomen folds in gentle curves,
A warm, yielding landscape of muscle and sinew,
Where digestion hums low, a subterranean choir,
Transforming sustenance into the body’s quiet song.

Spine, the steadfast column, runs the length—
A vertebral spine of old oak, steadfast and true,
Supporting the torso’s noble architecture,
Balancing poise with the grace of a dancer.

In this central chamber, British poise resides,
Not merely flesh, but the very core of being—
Where honour, courage, and quiet resolve
Are forged, beating strong beneath the skin’s humble guise.