Poetic Devices: 


The walls of the room are white and clean -
all sign's of yesterdays sorrows scrubbed
away with bleach.

The lights are bright and above the quiet
bulky TV set in the corner
is a painting of a poppy field.

Perhaps it's meant to be soothing,
but for some reason
it makes me think
of war,
of teenagers running into a field at dawn,
then falling down dead,
red blood blooming beneath their bodies.

Someone close by is sucking on a sweet, 
the hard sound echoing in the small room
along with Tippi's quiet breathing.

I want to speak,
say that I am ready to get up and go home,
if she is.

But I am so tired
I cannot talk.

I close my eyes and
 darkness reclaims me.






Sarah Crossan - Hospital

Sarah Crossan - Hospital