Thoughts From The Waiting Room

The formidable ticking,
white walls dripping with
grey light and windows
that don’t look like windows anymore.

They look like gravestones,
they look like highway lines
for the corpses, a two-way mirror
for God to look through.

Nobody tells the ghosts
that visiting hours are over,
they walk the halls all night
with no care for the chill
they’re bringing in.

This is not a place for well,
for the water at the bottom
or the splash that comes with it.
There is no rope for pulling up
liveliness here; you are left
with only functional or not—
and I have to be functional.

Don’t stare at the lights for
too long, you will start to think
you can never leave.

By A. Davida Jane

Biography:

A. Davida Jane is a writer and student from Wellington, New Zealand who studies English Literature and Classics. She spends most of her time around words, from poetry, novels and essays to working in a bookstore, and can’t imagine ever not writing. Find more of her writing at wefragilehumans.tumblr.com