The Waiting Room

Hello again, fellows! I am back, in a limited sense. I have some things to post, and I’ll be doing so this week.

Okay, so this poem is one of the ones I had written for a contest, but since I didn’t win, I figure that gives me full rein to post it here instead.
Also, um. The revelation that occasionally I have issues probably wouldn’t surprise you, dearest readers. I almost subtitled this “Or, the Visceral Sense of Impending Doom”, but I felt it a bit too melodramatic.

The Waiting Room

Beige is perfectly designed to suck the marrow
And set teeth on edge like the sound
Of nails dragged across a chalkboard;
Antiseptic smell burns the nostrils and tongue,
Comfortless chairs crowd closer and closer
And ancient magazines litter a table.
Panic creeps into the room on cat’s paws
Starting in the feet, hands, extremities
Twitching tapping wringing.
The others are unnaturally still;
Rustles and racking coughs only.
It grabs hold, claws sinking deeper
Gaining ground, moving
Up the legs, across the arms,
Curious hot cold queasy feeling.
Entrenched in the torso
Tears into the mind
Sending thoughts reeling
Harder to breathe
In the stillness
Black spots fuzzy shapes
Numb lips nose
Fingers toes long gone
Gorge rising
Can’t breathe
Oh god can’t
Breathe can’t feel
Multicoloured patches
Leaning drunkenly
Reach for oblivion
Slumping over
Can’t feel the
Floor rushing up

© Bridget Noonan, 2011, 2012.


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