Night Corridors

The furnishings are green,
cream and beige.
Take time clean hands
hangs there in a bold font.

And I’m emptied of everything
that is well.
A rotting husk;
a clear white shell.

A measured entity
charted and marked
bedbound and bedridden.
Beneath light blue cotton sheets.

And while the night corridors
wease with quiet pain.
We ask for blackness
and the sanctity of sleep

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