glass doors slide open
to a sterile hospital
with cold, blank walls
the color of lost dreams

nameless faces
eyes flecked with sorrow
saddened with knowledge
and meaningless statistics

an elevator rises all the way up
to the highest floor
where all the little children
go to die

a thin white gown
fails to conceal the shrinking body
skin stretched over a skeleton
a brittle girl with pasty skin

the mother softly cries
and holds her daughter's hand
and tells her that it will be alright
and that things will get better

everyone knows it won't be alright
and things won't get better
but they pretend to agree
and hide in silence behind broken smiles

once the room bustled with visitors
and presents and cards
everybody promised she'd get better
and she believed it

but life goes on
and people forget
a few months pass
and friends cease to visit

store bought cards line the windowpane
sent by unknown relatives
each one contains a false reassurance
and a "Get Well Soon" stamped on mechanically

night approaches
an elusive escape
the scent of death
lingers in the air

a squeaky metal chair
folds out into a bed,
uncomfortable at best
the mother tries to sleep

invisible droplets which form in her eyes
quietly fall onto crisp white sheets
the whispers of dying children
ring in her ear

every night she falls asleep
and hopes with everything she has left
that her little girl will get better
every morning proves her wrong.

nobody remembers how to talk
small talk can break a heart
there is a word that nobody speaks
but it still manages to penetrate the silence