leicester royal

walls of white and grave grey faces,
shouts of pain bounce down the halls.
the stink of clean the senses appalls,
in the most contradictory of places.
names are called and sufferers run to claim,
that ailment, that sickness – that is mine.
they beg for comfort, help, beg for time.
but on the screen they are none but a name.
for some the wait is painless, brief.
for others a brand new condition
their list finds a new addition
that may not end in sweet relief.
our health is money now, old friend –
stay clear, and if you can’t, pretend.


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