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My name is Sartorius, and I am a muscle of innovation.
I come from the anterior superior iliac spine.
I'm coordinated gently on the front side of the thigh—
A slender path through the human leg where functions glide.
I insert medially to the tibia’s grace,
Where the pull toward origin leaves a purposeful trace.
I flex the ankle, I flex the knees,
I flex the thigh with rotational ease.
Have you heard of Sartor, the noble tailor?
This muscle bears his name—never a failure.
At the action of the muscle, the monk's
smiles,
With innervations that spark innovation,
Creating sensation that deters lamentation.
The runner's energy when faced with catastrophe,
An ambition to fight when creativity resides,
The calmness at the Yogi's seat when ready for divine innovation,
A posture of peace relaying positivity and creativity.
Ha ha ha ha!
Have you heard of Sartor, the noble tailor?
A muscle helps you sit to meditate,
In such a position where silence speaks and ideas are found,
In stillness and not disturbance.
Where entropy and enthalpy are minimal.
Not in rush, but in being still,
Where thought moves and flows gently...
In such a condition that is guided by will.
The human clamors for no innovation—crossed legs, a quiet mind ready for meditation.
Ideas stretch out, then drift away without concentration.
With nerves that spark and blood that knows,
It gives the calm from which thought flows.
The truth which deep thinkers know:
Such is in the monks who sit without a sound,
Or tailors sewing thought to ground—
Sartorius bends, not just for grace,
But to help the mind find its place.
Author: Ayodeji01
This is a representation of scientific imagination linked to poetry.