The Sanatorium, My Tragic Keeper
By Kay Jackson
The brickwork is bleeding with decades of mold,
A fortress of iron, unfeeling and cold.
The ward numbers fade on the splintering doors,
Above the stained tile of the desolate floors.
In the hydrotherapy baths, the rusted pipes scream,
Choking on shadows and suffocated steam.
The administrative desks are buried in dust,
The medical needles are scaling with rust.
This structure was built to hold madness and tears,
A labyrinth feeding on centuries of fears.
It breathes through the vents, it speaks through the stone,
A monster of plaster that guards me alone.
The skin of my memory is peeling away,
I forget the bright warmth of a sun-gilded day.
My hands are transparent, a shimmer of frost,
A collection of everything I’ve ever lost.
I try to press fingers against the thick glass,
To watch the slow seasons and centuries pass.
But my touch leaves no fog, and my breath leaves no trace,
Just a hollowed-out shape in a forgotten place.
I am woven of sighs, I am tailored in grief,
A permanent fixture where time has no thief.
The wind through the rafters mimics my sigh,
As the world moves along and abandons the sky.
