The Waiting Room

When I entered that room,
I left time an errand,
to find the “measure”
of her future being.
And now I wait
at the centre of her heart.
All alone I wait,
while time twists and writhes
around the dials
and dissolves in the vials.
In a space crowded
with sounds, diseased,
I wait.
Her ailing sobs
do their dance of victory
around me.
The drips that give her life
make noises strident
in the silent pool of my heart.
Every injection
awakens a new portal
of the dormant pain.
A scream, stifled,
reverberates through the body
knocking at the door.
I travel to the
edge of her being
to save her soul
from sinking
into the morass of desperation.
But in the narrow streets
of her arteries,
hope lies abandoned.
The image of her rotting visage
and the looks of shudder,
it bore,
all jostle inside “chemo”,
which was her blood now.
I take a bite-sized
 piece of time,
in whose peregrinations
I sought the proof of her life.
Swirling the tastes around,
I could only find death.



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