The Asylum

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They’re in there. Blinded by white ceilings white walls amplifying dry fluorescent lighting draining the light from their eyes. Tin cups clank countering malicious metal bars ticking time tensely down to the daily meager meal. Stains stench of stale urine and shit. Shit staining smears smother white not quite white walls. Agony echoes bouncing between angry egos calling out crying wanting out whining. Amplified anguish to no audience but sneering six legged skitterers scuttling across sinister shadows. Left to suffer alone together alone suffering well known. Life a locked cage. Existence an endless pain.

In the asylum. The quarantine.

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They’re in there. A long journey it is from closed door to closed door under a single flickering light casting anything but enough to find a way through the never ending hallway. Rusting latches separating us from them but not differentiating the screaming from us or them the shouting over the other’s howling over the other’s. Opening barely a brief second doors banging shut slamming in dull dampness of dead dripping leaves. All eyes watching from above below for an escape to a better above or below. Thwarted by thoughts of freedom suffering in the sunlight or dependence captive in the timely deliverance of life sustenance. Life a locked door. Existence a hopeless abandonment.

In the asylum. The corridor.

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They’re in there. Eyes piercing through knit wire knots eyes peering back curiously sharp. Seen unseen through screen static awaiting channel change. Arms stretch out searching yearning strong grips grabbing filling empty voids between watcher and watched. Immerse day in day out passerby passing by bye bye another one by one. Same same sun and rain smile and wave except Sunday. Grazed by constant gaze plucked privacy dignity diving. Never no one not knowing nowhere to hide run just showing off showing. On judgement moving on forgotten shameful seconds first stares start back eyes piercing through knit wire knots. Life a locked script. Existence a meaningless repetition.

In the asylum. The trail.

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They’re in there. Drowning hot wet air through surgical masks suffocating. Palms sweaty under latex gloves snapping weak wrists. White uniforms not quite white splattered red blood smeared shit stained. Shiny sterile trays storing sparkling sharp tools scissors tweezers scalpels. Monitors beeping life away death sneaking in seconds of silence. Glass cabinets glowing chemically choose medicines a poison fill the glass syringe. Single light shining fading the light left hiding behind troubled breath. Time check pen scratch to dispatch black body bags in ice boxes. Alcohol erases any trace of a was an is a will be. Life a locked duration. Existence a fleeting moment.

In the asylum. The infirmary.

They’re in there. Me. Sophie. Life a locked schedule. Existence a pointless cycle.

In the asylum. The frustration.

Love and Peace,

Elise

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