The Corridor of Death

Waist height with raspy breathe,
walking the corridors of the building of death.
The blood curdling screams and curses afar,
The sound of life ending every corner i take.
Small fingers and a pale face,
Running small hands along the walls that stand.
The silence of dreams and the laughter of sleep,
The smell of nothing, pungent and clear.
Such destruction in such a saving place,
They do their best, they didn’t do enough.
Ten hours of labored lungs,
breathes so short can't say my name in one,
Fast, shallow, wheezy ness, cant sit or sleep.
No other symptoms just failing lungs,
What to do with the doomed one?
What mark is this, the one over here?
They can't all be cat scratches?
'Are you sure its just eczema?'
Try and try i do, but blind is the difference made.
Airways tighten as the breathing hurts,
Black and white bone and organ pictures,
Blood from the wrist next to the scar.
Failed once, one needle down, leave the room with a frown.
Enter again, 3 needles fresh, a nervous laugh and a reassured look.
Two for luck, one to try, if failed again a promise not to die.
Dark lines on arm so carefully examined,
Breathe measured, a failed technique, one quarter lung capacity and choke of death.
Second mask and eight tablets forced,
Breathing better, words flow free from throat.
Piece of art on the wall, wandering the halls.
Hear the screams, remember the day, that last time i was here.
That life that was lost, walking up that path alone.
Breathing better, nearly faint.
Diaphragm and intercostal muscles in agony.
Throat screaming, lungs bleeding, eyes pierced and mouth leaking.
Some raspy breathe, stalking the corridor of death.