The Flatline

I see a man lay on sheets of sickly white
Unconscious to his own existence
Alone and all but gone
A shell of what had been

I can't help but notice
That a single red line etching itself away
On an endless black screen to his left
Is the only thing that separates him from the absence of life

A clock behind him determines his existence
Regulating the time
In which another patient
Will someday take his place
Slowly turning, always counting
Never telling when

An apathetic beep seems to tick away each moment
Tormenting his existence
While the remnant of his life
Continues its rhythmic pattern
Half heartedly to say the least

A fan slowly spins above his head
Always appearing to be slowing down
But never really stopping
Just hanging on
As though it really makes a difference
To exist between life and death

A flatline is all that he would ask for
If only he could speak