What a life, trapped in my eyes,
in the same exact place as when I was nine. Looking at the walls colored the same shade of white, as two decades ago with no face of time.
The blankets look complacent, there thin and complaining, there used like the tubes hooked to the veins with tape and in this way there confused because they thought they were ok.
But now they understand, the excuses are a ruse, like the stand and the wheels that creak as they move, the beep in the recesses of my sleep is bleak, I mean to say the wheels feel loose like the bolts under this seat. The only way there complete is the faith that they seek, keeps them hoping to obtain another momentary gain, in this way there just the same as you and me.
The blue gown holds a frown that none can refrain, they say a thousand words but none are explained. The same can be said for the ways of the dead, nothing can be done while the pain is at rest.
An illusion is the conclusion from the stretchers with chains, a meaningless act of selfishness and all else will change.
All Rights Reserved - Kevin Cawley 2014
YOU ARE READING
The Hospital
PoetryThe blankets look complacent, there thin and complaining, there used like the tubes hooked to the veins with tape and in this way there confused because they thought they were ok.
