Two days in, confined to my room
The never-ending soundtrack, to my days
I was free to roam unrestricted, unchecked, unrestrained.
But the more I hear,
The more poison enters my system,
the more my world contracts.
First, confined to the ward,
A Prisoner in every room
each shackled to the wall.
Caged with their own fear and pain, unwilling to share,
anxiety etched on their faces.
Dead, flat eyes stare into their personal oblivion,
but not mine.
I wake to the noise, but
as the ward awakens it slips to the back ground,
lurking unnoticed, overpowered by routine,
medic’s in and out,
trollies, squeaky shoes, conversation in hushed tones,
the hospital revving to reach a crescendo of noise.
Poison, overwhelming my defences, it betters me physically,
it rips out my humour, my bravado
but not my determination.
I cling to ’this is temporary, it will pass’.
Two days in, confined to my room,
food I cannot face.
Three days in, all I can do is close my eyes, to hope in sleep
I reach a state, where waves of nausea
will not find me.
All to soon I visit Mr Armitage and Mr Shanks
who have seen it all before.
The day wains
Silence trying to creep through the hospital,
never quite snuffs out the sound.
Day five, the small hours, its contents discharged
the last bag hangs empty from my skinny friend.
The pump silenced, the rhythm stops.
A few short hours, unmolested sleep follow.
Discharged home, a pale shadow who looks like me.
Empty, retched and exhausted, but
Steve Singleton, North West London
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