The cot lies flat beneath my spine,
the air is dry, the color pale.
A red pipe runs a crooked line—
it hisses softly without fail.

My skull is tight, a failing drum.
A piston coughs, not quite in tune.
The light above begins to hum—
the ceiling bows like stretched-out dune.

The walls breathe slow beneath their grime.
My teeth are ticking in my head.
A drip repeats what someone said—
in words that almost taste like time.

A shadow climbs the angled steel.
The pipe above begins to shake.
Its breath is hot enough to feel—
or maybe that’s my own mistake.

I try to count my breaths aloud.
The numbers don’t return to me.
There’s humming in my inner ear—
a song I can’t unsee.

The cot is gone. I float in chrome.
My thoughts are welded to the wall.
A whisper speaks without a mouth.
I’m weightless in the sprawl.