The business of Life & Death- an ode to the Hospital

 ICU, is potent,

Ripe.

A surge and ebb of tides,

the flow of people tween this mortal world,

and the other side,

the exchange is constant,

incessant, 

ceaseless,

I see strangers, united, in a singular solidarity,

a unity of their miseries,

Misery, is a great leveller,

any difference of opinions, outside these transient portals, 

walls,

loses its veracity here,

for here, Pain and suffering are absolute Monarchs,

Monarch's that suffer no fools,

Over time, everyone accepts,

by the hands that write,

fate,

This was written, was fated,

never expected, but decreed,

Some pull through, 

with a few scars,

as death laughs, at the lucky one,

"Tis not yet your time"

" we will meet again, surely, someday".

While, those less fortunate,

Succumb,

The monitors, and frequent beeps,

are silenced,

a few light flash, signaling the end,

"Bed number 2, gone" they say, 

Listless,

every limb sucked dry,

Of that ancient elixir,

called Life.

No silent tears, no time,

for a whispered adieu,

"Why dwell on the past, Usher in the new,"

"Its Business, and we're open", 

And,

A slew of people, are in the que,

Hastily, the remains of the recently deceased,

Are covered, and whisked away,

and,

Another Patient rolls in,

Amidst groans, and moans,

and tears.

"Its Business, and we're open", they say,

I whisper a silent prayer,

for my Mother there,

I am solemnly reminded,

there are other's here too,

Abysmal fate,

A foreign tongue, screams in agony,

a young girl from the cradle of Humanity,

Africa,

Her folks try to hush her, comfort her,

She whimpers acceptance,

The bed next to her,

Mr. Islam,

Liver almost dead,

Heart with issues,

Kidneys, dysfunctional,

Hands tied to his bed,

For, he fidgets,

Pulling open, catheters, 

Pipes, and tubes,

A lad next to him, early twenties,

Screams in delirious convulsion's,

Face, Ribs, Forehead,

a mess,

A head on collision,

Daredevilry, or worse,

Aged Parents look on, helpless,

Sigh's, tears..

Silently cursing the decision,

to give him a Motorbike,

Still,

There's more,

To this pathetic tale,

So much more,

I see them all,

And pray equally,

for all,

One cannot be selfish, in a place thus littered,

with Humanity's rise and fall,

Pitfalls,

The Comings and goings of Men,

Some Hardened,

Some wizened,,

Some, unrelenting,

A constant mess.

The floor Below houses the Infants,

Pink hands and feet,

Mewling little Angels,

Covered in the softest of wool,

I see them, 

and silently say,

"Welcome"

" would you be the one to change the world, and make it a better place?"

I get no answer,

Only a set of beautiful eyes,

On a most cherubic face,

Chuckle, gleam, Twinkle,

at me, 

" Wait", she says,

" I am a surprise"..

In hope we are all tied,

Between the latest victory,

or,

the last tragedy,

So much,

And nothing really,

Depends on whether you feel,

or don't,

Conditioning of the soul,

Battered by circumstances, we learn,

Anyways,

Fret not,

"Its just business, and we're open, Waiting for you."

"whether inbound, or outbound, We, are the portals between this World,

and the netherworld".

Poignant writes the pen,

Poised,

Hissing like a viper,

a Sabre, singing it's way,

to delivery justice,

or,

a crime.

Poignant writes the Pen,

belittling the silly world of Men,

They call themselves Giants,

yet, cannot control their own comings & goings,

This world, there are many that need Succour,

God's touch,

maybe a human touch..

Change is sometimes, too much.

The Wordsmith - September 2021-

is potent,