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  • Writer's pictureIona Stuart

Bed 47 - Poetry

I have rediscovered purgatory.

Its face is gray and shifting.

Dark shadows wander over uncharted strips,

Mirages dancing in the echoing twilight veil.

The air is stifled and filled with a thousand thundering cries;

Machines that hum, and figures that natter.

Great lungs heave from beneath,

Each gurgling breath disturbing fitful slumber.

Minds slip in and out of the jarring meld of conscious streams,

And sleepless moments merge into endless night.

Innumerable hands of stiff,

Unstirring troops clench each draining body,

Tightly binding flesh into painful confinement,

So that each miniscule movement accumulates in aches.

And we await the call from the power above to decide our fate.

And we wait to see how our soul survives.

And we wait.

And we wait.

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