PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

There is a signature smell in this room:
 that of disinfectant and sterile air.
There is a pregnant apathy attached:
 to its bright lights, white tiles, and cold table.

Patients draped in sterile hospital gowns,
 strangely they look alike on the table.
Patients in any station, race, or look,
 they are given equal chances to survive.

Surgeons behind masks and glasses play God.
A patient's life, rests at a scalpel's end.
A surgeon's expertise and steady hands
could fix, improve, or just break the hopefuls.

In this room where lives sometimes see their end,
silent prayers are breathed, rituals are done.
There is always a minute doubt, whether
 the patient emerges from the  ordeal.

Because nobody can be very sure.
Certainty sometimes could turn to regret.
So love ones could only wonder what news 
await behind sliding doors of the operating room.