When polished metal handle turns
and weighty woodgrain door admits
cadaverous physicians grim
collapsing mattress quicksand fast
while mindless TV melts away
as oxygen removes its mask
that nothing breathes until they speak
- but not before your ruptured heart
spills days of dread across the floor
embattled by fluorescent blare
asphyxiating sterile air
within this dizzy instant caught
between some laughter down the halls
the glaring glass confusing walls
that tray of lunch you could not eat
cold blankets heaped about your feet -
until "The test was negative"
resuscitates your hope to live.

Resuscitation © Copyright 2021, Robert J. Tiess.

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18 lines.  Fear challenge prompt - link:
Submitted: November 17, 2019