Sick of this pain
And of this cyclical sorrow.
Sick of the unfamiliar voices with no faces.
And of this hospital room, stark and lifeless.
But most of all I am sick of this beeping machine
rising and falling like a monster's
razor sharp teeth, chewing my soul to pieces.
As I watch the bright strand rise and fall
I wonder what will happen when the teeth still,
When they transpire to nothing but a thin line.
Would I fall from the mouth
into the belly of the beast?