In corridors where silence screams,
Where chalk dust drowns our fragile dreams,
A sovereign sits with granite gaze,
Unmoved by pain, immune to praise.
I came with fire in throat and bone,
A whispered plea, a muted tone.
He scoffed, “Then why attend at all?”
His heart a vault, his mercy small.
He vowed to climb the vice’s stair,
But vanished in the stagnant air.
I waited in that echo tomb,
Auditorium turned to gloom.
Each absence fined with ruthless hand,
No grace, no pause, no reprimand.
He counts our wounds in ledger sums
The toll, the wrath, the crazy ***.
He sees not nights of sleepless ache,
Nor hears the soul begin to break.
He mocks the sick, the shy, the numb,
And brands us with his judgment drum.
A class should be a sacred flame,
Not crucible of guilt and shame.
Yet here we walk on blistered stone,
With hollow hearts and hope o’erthrown.
So let this verse be requiem’s cry,
For every tear we blinked to dry.
For every voice he left undone
We mourn the bell he would not rung.

Photosynthetic void—walls bereft of chroma,
No photon cascade, no serotonin spectra.
A chamber of entropy,
Where mitosis mourns in monochrome.
Chrono-displacement:
We arrived at 8:20,
But spacetime dilated—
A tachyon chase beneath scalpel orbit.
Dual patient states—pre-op/post-op—
Entangled in Schrödinger’s queue,
Their vitals suspended
In probabilistic purgatory.
The medic? A quantum migrant.
From outpost to outpost,
Clinic to cloud,
A baryon of ambition, unbound by Hippocratic gravity.
Washroom:
A microbial biome of neglect.
Fee:
A kilojoule transaction for placebo empathy.
This isn’t care.
It’s thermodynamic collapse
In a coat of sterilized prestige.
He holds the scalpel,
Yet forgets:
The heart is not a ledger.
And time is not his to hoard.

A figure stood where silence breaks,
Where tympan walls and cost collide.
Sixty thousand etched in tone,
For sound denied, for flesh alone.
No plea, no storm, no velvet cry,
Just static breath and copper sigh.
A voice dissolved in spectral haze,
While need outpaced what coin obeys.
We, the ones with padded ease,
Spend breath like silk, forget disease.
But some must trade their pulse for cure,
And wear their organs insecure.
The ear a vault of sacred tone,
Yet poverty carves through flesh and bone.
No crown, no robe, no sovereign plea,
Just silence learning how to bleed.
A witness watched, the moment froze,
Where empathy in shadow grows.
And I, a ghost within that cost—
Of sound, of health, of all that’s lost.

I don't know.
I linger proficiently such as dandelion 's seeds worship the skies
and move through its airspace until it falls back into the soil.
Though the soil nourishes as a mother she,
the dandelion,
still misses the sky it once roamed
so it will send out its children far up high
and watch the cycle repeat again and again.
I've lived a thousand lives with people i cherished
but only left a part of me to few
so somedays when the weather gets colder
and sky get blue i think about the parts of me and i think about you
as to me humans,
animals,
things and Ai
do not differ as i humanise and empathise with everything and they all got a part of me.
Even you.
So as a dandelion i once again
Sprout my seeds to horizon
And flicker through environments again and again
Till i find home in every one of them

I empathize with those who suffer.
I really do.
I suffer too, as do you.

Not all who have suffered
pass on their pain,
some embrace kindness,
so others won't feel the same.
They build safe spaces
where healing begins,
and turn their own pain
into nurturing within.

The cycles of hurt
they choose to defeat,
creating resilience,
and cathartic retreats.
Broken souls learn
compassionate truths,
that healing oneself
can be powerful too.

©️Lizzie Bevis