Can you see him creeping?
His eyes flick and dart,
looking for something in the stark white halls.
Echoes of the dead and gone
are absorbed ever so quietly into
this hospital's history,
and they are the only sounds in the quiet
of this century.
He's the reason it'll soon be forgotten,
and why nobody survives the night.
His breath stills their pleas,
their faces frozen into expressions
of horror
of turmoil
of despair.
Their cold lips cannot plead innocent.
The old elevators creak and falter,
the silent demons holding at
rusting, ancient chains.
The weak and crying,
the mourning,
remain stuck between floors three and four.
Their tears are eaten by the unraveling carpet,
their wails cleaned out with bleach and disinfectant.
There is blood on his hands and on his heart.
He has never felt alive,
not when he has surrounded himself
with the diseased and dying.
But he is the one who is the most alive among them.
Their final gasps are all he needs
to keep on breathing.
He keeps on surviving
and stealing lonely lives from the sick and dreaming.
