The Hospital - Poem by Ruth Walters
Large, heavy, wooden, daunting doors
loomed before my eyes as I enter.
An empty side office, reception
with old fashioned filing cabinets,
dark now, glass shutters, closed.
Another heavy door in front of me,
it leads to a wide, cold floored corridor.
Such a daunting place to work.
The black and white tiling, lofty ceilings,
do nothing to reassure me.
More heavy, locked doors
with tiny, peep holes for windows, barred.
The sound of faint screaming echoes,
ghost like, drifting towards me
I reach a wide, stone staircase.
Everything is locked and bolted,
no one passes but the screaming continues.
Asylums, those old mental hospitals,
where we still send the forgotten
to live out their lives and rot.
You wouldn't ever call this home
and the world outside rolls by
as the traffic speeds along.
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