A Poem: Room 3


A light so bright black would shine,
lodged in the corner.
A science awaits the oncoming, calculate time
Ridged! Out stretched trolley hold

Smelling clean the untouched uniform is tied.
A pen mark, a line.
Skin splits…
Like a conductor keeping time.

Time ticks slow…
Eyes scatter the space leaving the subject alone.
Burning hair greats the pneumatic scream.
Oblivious a smile?

Glue and staples and a stitch in time.
Lungs exfoliating air
As if it was me lay there.

By Alan Whitfield 2012

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