Bay One
HCMC Stabilization Unit

We stand in the bays where chaos lands first,
Where sirens deliver the battered and cursed,
Where blood speaks louder than words can shout,
And the line between life and death plays out.

The worst that humans do with their hands—
Steel, fists, gravity, bullets—no one understands.
A look in their eyes, sometimes blank, sometimes wild,
Sometimes it’s a man, sometimes it’s a child.

We patch what we can in fluorescent light,
Hold back the dark with our gloves pulled tight.
A breath returned is a battle won,
But the war? It’s never truly done.

Some come in screaming, some come pleading,
Some carried by hate, some swallowed by pills.
We don’t ask why—it’s not ours to know—
We just press and suture, and tell them, “Go.”

And then they come back—again, again,
Same wounds reopened, same cycle of pain.
Sometimes we see hope; sometimes just delay.
Sometimes we wonder why we stay.

But in between the screams and moans,
We witness the soul rebuilding its bones.
A girl who wakes, a heart that beats,
A mother’s cry when her boy finds his feet.

We see resurrection in the smallest spark—
A touch, a blink, a pulse in the dark.
And still, the ones we mend may fall,
But that doesn’t make our work small.

This place is heavy with what it holds—
The truth of the world, both savage and bold.
We clean the wounds of a broken street,
And sometimes, just barely, make it beat.

So if you ask how we carry this weight,
The violence, the cycles, the edge of fate—
We don’t have answers, just blood and breath,
And the stubborn will to wrestle death.

In Bay One, Two, Three, and Four… where the broken descend,
We’re not just healers—we’re witnesses, friends.
And though they may return, and return once more,
We’ll be here still, behind the secure door.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved