MY POEM COLLECTION

#23

They swarm down the white plastered hall,

they talk with their whitened slacks for stalls,

their eyes are filled with calculation,

their hands are upheld with concentration,

my hands stifle at the sight,

of the ward at my right,

the patients, young and old,

cover the ward, dense and cold,

the figures behind push me forward with smiles,

saying I will be the star of the piles,

but my reluctance glistens in the way I shrivel,

and crackles with the way I shovel,

blood and gore consume the room,

but my mind is faraway from the loom,

back in my bed with my books that cackles,

soft and answering to all of my pens and papers,

sheathed in the wrath of my heart's cry,

I unloosen the slacks and go to deny,

I run and run till the wards pass by,

and seethe and seethe till its only a dream,

my room comes back and glides to view,

the bed and lamp rustle, anew,

I jump back to where my books are a pile,

back with my pen, my heart truly smiles.

I want to thank God for giving me the Grace to write this.
How was the poem?