I was hoping never to see you again.
But that was wishful thinking.
And sadly it is no surprise since your indelible imprint remains true to form –
Bed for bed, curtain for curtain.
Further confirmation that life is fragile,
Precious.
The doors to F4 swing open
And your walls are lined with women,
Young and old,
Ailing, grieving
Wailing and heaving.
I was hoping never to see you again.
But that was wishful thinking.
And so I find myself a one-in-four, mourning on your watch again.
Mourning
Blood and tears,
Pain and loss,
Whilst you bear witness to regrettably, just another clinical episode
Within your sterile walls.
Apparently it’s normal to grieve a person you never knew –
Less a person, more a soul struggling for survival, bundled up in collapsing cells –
A once remarkable conception.
But now I grieve only the concept
Of its very finite future
Being flushed away before my very eyes.
And on F4, it’s just another day.
Is it any wonder that your floors are awash with those very same tears,
Your beds stained with that very same blood,
Your walls ears to those very same wails.
Yet that is precisely why it’s safe in your arms –
Safety in numbers, so they say.
I was hoping never to see you again,
But when I did,
You were there for me.
In your own sterile way.
