the hospital.

we walked,

but only i saw

the pictures on

the morbid walls.

our footsteps all

in rhythm with

the rubber wheels

wearing the hall.

i felt their hands

tighten on mine,

no doubt sweatier

if only

their skins

were not so tough.

they were old,

and i was young

still mostly,

they believed,

a child,

plain, so simple.

but childhood

could not mute

all the unhappy,

echoing sounds

of our feet,

our blood,

our thoughts

and fears.

the wheels knew,

so they sang on,

screeching along

with the bodies

i couldn't see,

since i wasn't

that tall at all,

not even 4'3''.

and the echoes

in the hall

refused to die,

unlike the others,

who went

without a sound;

no screaming,

no hell

like i see

on t.v.

where only the blood

can untruly run free.

i'm sure they tried

to somehow rewind

and see their lives

unfold again,

the way i tried

to escape

their lukewarm hands,

their lukewarm eyes,

to free myself

from that place

of monotonous faces,

monotonous smells.

but they could not,

and i could not:

the doctors

would never escape

this place, 

though they are

more sick and tired

than anyone else

of the whiteness

that was not 

quite white,

superficial coats

to hide behind.

for, they have to

be brave, 

stand tall, 

and pretend

to know it all.

i know they don't.

they know they don't.

but we all wished

they did, 

prescribing magic

pills,

and spitting

in my eyes

new lenses

for life

as they spoke 

what they could recall

from the books

on the walls...

we live in hope

that truth will seep

from the silent myths 

our brains secrete.