On the edge of the void, she lost her mind,
Fell and her hand hit rows of framed prints,
Glass everywhere and when she came to,
Blood all over the hall, an emergency call,
And back to the hospital for another romp.
Tentacle rigs with lights, beeps and sirens.
A room in a ward, buffed linoleum floors.
Polishers whining and low sounds paging.
Occasional screams. Are they yours?
Again, on the edge of the void, she drowses.
New spring flowers, and poems from sad poets.
Laughter along the long passages, with footsteps,
Empty pedestrian greetings and hollow smiles.
A tentacle cuff squeezes hard then releases.
“You could not wait to get back here?”
Not her physician but the hospitalist,
Orchestrator of the institutional horror.
Her retinue like a Greek chorus dancing,
Her hands like butterflies. Escape? Perhaps,
But where? and for how long? Narcotic sleep?
None from outside come. Shades always drawn.
Level by level she descends, not really caring,
And who should know on what ledge she waits.
Finally tucked in her coma? Infinite questions
With answers composed in deep black water.
