If our outer shell encloses, it deforms

The books he wrote were solid like good oak
Giving him a structure that he lacked
A skeleton outside his flesh and bones

A fortress made of words and printed thoughts
To hide  behind when torture broke  his back
The books he wrote were solid like good oak

If our outer shell encloses,  it deforms
Even brings our death,  unless   it’s cracked
A skeleton outside  but not of bone

The books  gave shape to his still  half numb heart
He felt he had no  being, was no fact
The books he wrote  gave breath like leaves of oak

Some use crutches, some crawl slowly home
Wandering by  the  shoppers  with  some tact
Oh, skeleton outside, how dry our throats

I wonder is  all this by Google tracked?
They watch us, not to help us  nor   perfect
The books he wrote were solid, real  and  taut
A  crucifix  of  words , expressive thoughts