Whitewash walls grace the outside.

Men in startlingly white coats,

briskly walking to important meetings,

important places,

clipboards under their arms,

left, right, left, right.

ladies in snow white uniforms,

waltz around the rooms like doves,

carrying medicine to this ward,

that ward,

swiftly deducing the patient's destiny,

decided in a single movement of a pen.

white beds pushed around like trollies,

pieces of metal and steel gleam coldly in the harsh white light.

supposedly clean, supposedly sterile.

supposed to save lives.

unseen germs and undetectable diseases lurk amongst those smiles and knowing hands,

cold, unforgiving,

merciless, hidden under a blanket of white,

colour of purity.

Shit.
Want to,
need to,
go running.
Want to yank the door open,

and run out.
wish to,

run away from things.
many things.
hopefully praying they will leave.
need to,
run,
like a dying man wants water.
fingers and legs itching to go.
to feel the comforting pounding of feet connecting to ground,
ankles lifting and landing,
legs moving through the air.
desperately hope to feel cool night breeze against my face,
to escape from the tepid room light,
and let the moonbeams fill my thoughts,
to blank out all other memories,
dreams,
to watch the stars fly by,
to hear no other sound but my own breathing,
and my pounding feet,
stars,
cold, distant,
offering comfort though,
more comfort than anyone could ever give.
no one must see the silent silver streams,
sliding down my cheeks like sparkling moonbeams.

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