Closed windows, pretty flowers,
Beeping machines, no loose threads.
TVs running, nurses waiting,
Painted rooms, well-made beds.

The atmosphere is clean and open,
Yet stuffy and enclosed.
And the nurses here are smiling
While patients grasp their crosses close.

The temporary homes are painted
With animals and desert view.
Anxiously waiting to see if the
Person will go soon.

The hallways: long and deafening.
The rooms: screaming with fear.
The walls are closed in, watching firmly,
For miracles also happen here.

A child sees his first glimpse of the world;
A cancer survivor leaves happily after the fight;
A lucky person lies relieved after surgery;
A suffering man closes his eyes.

-

Artificial home-like furniture, hands sanitized.
A life is lost and tears appear from words they wish they'd said.
Luck or blessing, yours to name, and flower scent in the air.

But once a body leaves or fails to give away a breath,
Nothing is changed.
The life that lay upon the mattress now ceases to exist,
And the chamber stays a chamber;
For all they are are painted, lurking, killing, curing rooms
And tucked-in-well-made beds.