The Waiting Room.

A strange place.
A dull, empty, numbing space,
charged with tension and fear.

A place of revelations and ambiguity.
News hangs in the air, charged with fear,
alongside the stench of boredom.

The nurses chat and people come and go,
clutching their pieces of paper.
Carrying their secrets.

A few faded magazines, curled and vacant,
hide the inconsequential stories
of those in the real world who smile and pose.

Posters glare out from the walls.
Bragging and coercing, blaming and shaming.
insisting on their own importance.

I sit, curled into a small ball of inconsequence,
while the minutes slip by on the silent clock,
counting out a life.

Here I have no past, no future and no meaning.
I am defined by my need, an empty shell.
My only function is to wait.

One day the door will open
into another room
and I shall walk through.



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