Room 20: Emergency Room

She is lying there,
Barely breathing
With a heart barely beating enough
To keep her alive.
All the tubes, wires, and prayers
Are fueling her soul to hold on.
"Please, don't leave us."
And then,
The sound they've all been dreading.
The endless beeping echo of death
Resounding in a room full of
Regret, anger, and relief.
"She's in a better place now."

Room 22: Stroke

He keeps on saying
He feels better
Ready to go home
100%!
All the while,
His wife's patience is dwindling.
"I'm all he's got now.
I can't leave him."
They're 70 years old,
Married for 45.
45 years and a ruptured artery
A plaque on his heart
And a boxful of God-knows-what drugs
She still holds his hand
Even when her own heart
Is heavy.

Room 24: Cancer

Maria went through three cycles in past the months
Three excruciating cycles of chemotherapy
They tell you the anti-emetics will reduce the side effects.
When you're 65-years old
And all alone,
And cancer is swimming in your veins,
What else do you hold on to?
These are the side effects:
You lie awake at night
Wishing you lived a better life
Wishing you didn't shut everyone out
You should've married
You should've spent more time living
Instead of merely surviving
"You're a survivor."
But what good is surviving when pain comes with it--
The type of pain
No medication
Can take away?

Room 25: Beauty

I am a mother of two.
A boy and girl.
Beautiful
Is what they call me.
I'm looking at my daughter,
And..
And if only I accepted her,
For what she was
For what she wasn't
Then we wouldn't be here.
Tragic
Defiled.
I took her to the Dermatologist
To fix what wasn't broken
She injected her with chemicals
That would heal her
But a horrible allergic reaction ensued.
I should've seen how
Beautiful my baby was.

Room 26: Prostate

Everybody loves him.
Even all his 20 kids
Whose mothers he can barely memorize.
I honestly don't know how many wives he has.
I don't even know how many
He has actually married.
All I know is this:
I am his current wife.
At 71,
His body doesn't work right
anymore.
At 31,
I have needs
He could no longer meet.
But I love him.

Room 27: Not For Admission**

I am dark & desolate
I am hungry
For souls that need shelter
And tears that need hiding
I've seen enough deaths to even care how I'd look.
My paint is almost drying up,
My walls are almost ready
I can't wait for the next story.

The self-pitying poor me’s
That restless selfish agenda
Spreader spoiled butter
                              on a fine piece of toast
The boastful explanation
                            on a beautiful landscape
It needs no explaining
And interpretations are
subjective speculations only
Nothing of a permanent fixture
As is with a and the cycle proceeds
My feeding seems undone and useless
Fits feel necessary but I don’t have the space
And never will because
Excuses are easy to come by
What’s the point anyway?
The anointing paradoxes
all lead to the same Sufferings
Opening my arms to embrace it
But nearly everytime
The struggle’s met with more of the same
The fight in a boxful of mirrors
All showing those beautiful flaws
Of which I’d rather frown at,
                      than spring a chuckle
And I am a cuckold in all this
Because I grasp the branch
                  while being pulled in a current
Instead of letting the river release me

Dimmed light, dirt and walls of pain,
Long nights, mud and pouring rain.
He's buried in his thoughts
Wandering about among the towers
That rise from the mist.
Fingers entwine in his worried hair.
The seasons change as he crosses the street.
For now the traffic is but a crimson caravan.
Passerbies have neon heat disease,
Elephant talk goes over his ears.
He whispers to himself:
"Death is a birthright,
A torch burns
Not to keep the shadows at bay
But because it was lit.
Seeds and honey, milk and blood,
Let all the old words cease to rhyme.
By some reason cemetery gates
Are almost always only halfway closed.
My suspection device is active now."
He carries a boxful of sunset on a strap.

The mirror spits his image,
The glass is spilled
Like sparkling dew.
Human body parts fallout.
He's just a picture in my book.

And than mother brought brother
So I would clean his cut and soothe the pain.
His hand was frightened.
She said while leaving the room:
"Look, don't touch;
Cry, don't tell."
"She's partially right" I said.
"The bones in the ceiling can hear you,
They resonate with your cries.
So hush all lush
And maybe cut the cult out of culture
Maybe, again, using puncture
<During the last two lines my brother laughed loudly>
To become a lightning bridge" I finished.

He: "Will you show me your Rocket Book?"
I: "I can't show it to you today
But I can read the last note:
<I wink>
"It's a glass forest,
And she've cried my eye out.
Strange woman."
Sorry that's all.
All else is either miskatonic or methademic.
Or drowned in a bayou.
<I wink again,
He winces>
But you know,
Thunder roars not asking why
So don't let the envy of void
**** in your cruel joy.
The pity and the baffled
Suppress and fear savage savants.
Make your way
Right through the shards of glass
And their cracking will sing for you."
He: "But each one of them calls like:
"Name all the aimless thoughts in my head,
Number the countless stars in the sky,
Call my sole shadow for a dance,
Strip me of my armor and disguise."
I: "That's not more valuable
Than a **** if you want.
Though I can't deny
That at times
Morn's coy shimmer takes my voice."
Suddenly we simultaneously say:
"Forgive me, I was being foolish."