The patient, perceived as a weakling
His perspective of life, solely dependent on his state of mind;
Melancholic suppression and pity for the dying form
The bloodline driving towards a meaningless end
The only hope at the theatre is hopelessness
Deaden of the nerves, physiological disjointedness
Fear permeates every corner,
The only sound; the wheel of the stretcher
Now he is no more deemed a weakling
His falling and failing is visible
The noise on the outside is that of a shepherd’s calling
All that can be understood lies in the last prayers of the sheep at the slaughter
Survival becomes scarce, the smell of oxygen an expensive dose,
Self determination to live carry little or no weight, success is now an uncertainty;
Hope, then despair; trust then caution
The gasp gets faster, we fear for drooling approaches.
The medicals for a second assume the position of “the mediocre”
Then the clocks stop and the room is quiet;
There is blood everywhere and the spatulas have done the splitting
Then silence! The most uncomfortable noise in the theatre.
The team begin to depart, the veil covers the victim;
Melancholic music in the air, o not really but the noise of the sympathisers
In a minute of two it should be over- how hard it is to live with the bleed
No pulses, only voices, but from outside, not inside.
Then in the twinkle of an eye the springs shift, and the bed re-rumpled
First of all a scare or the remembrance of “The Invisible Man”
A little jostle of the legs, then the final stretch
We all rush outside, not inside,
Fear in delight, surprise in despair
But now comes the real tears, he is back to normal
A cold cough and more movements
He is alive, somehow he came back
A tear then two, the multitude join in the rejoice
It was a long wind, but success was achieved
At last he is free to go home and live in peace.
We cried for him – in pain, but in return he gave us a smile- in exhalation as we sing!
-’laoluwabimbola copyright 2011
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