Sta.sh
Hospitals put things into perspective.
They have lights that always seem to be on.
You can never find a peace, a darkness.
Almost as if there is no day or night
No way to tell how or if time is passing
Unless you count the painful cries
Of a baby’s scream at night,
The rotation of a too cheerful nurse
Or a cold omniscient Doctor’s skepticism,
They think too much or too little,
No way to hide.
These dull lights find you.
Glaring down at you in hard contrast
to the always yellow or green pastel colors that surround,
Neutral colors of healing that turn red despite
their self proclaimed stature,
Whispering that this is where your life starts and ends.
Not evil. Not good.
Not anything.
Like the mindless groan of a machine
the irritating prick of a needle,
the odd smell of clean that fears dirt.
The measuring, the feeling, the needing.
The struggle.
Always being tired but never being able to sleep.
Being so real, so fake, so.
Just being.
Simplistically hard.
Soft.
Light and heavy at the same time.
Needing and hating they beseech you.
Making things pointless,
And many more things so much more important.
Like the Balloon that dances high above you.
Blocking the Light.
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