Wilted flowers fill corridors;
hospitals are cold and detached,
an antiseptic edge on warm, sunny days
I didn’t understand, its sadness too
close. Don’t flowers bloom in spring?
Watching them walk away hand-in-hand, I cried
A resolute woman said “They’ve died,”
as crimson flowed through fertile foliage,
exploding into exotic, toxic blooms
Non-existent neon float —
my sleep was vacancy for dreaming,
as the IV continued to drip
Process notes: This is not a prompted poem, it is simply a poem.