I wonder if the sky’s been taught
To fold a hospital bed
It’s surely white enough today
Starcher than freshly washed sheets
Stinking of scented soaps
Detergent galore
But those perfect creases
Never able to be inspected
Even in an airplane thousands of miles
Above this head
So we can only be left to imagine
And if the sky is a hospital bed
Are we to be the patients?
Stranded on a rolling island of cotton
And antibiotics
Carted around on this hospital
so named Earth
Until we have learned our lessons
And are free to return
But, return to what?
That is the question
How are we to return
to something we’ve never been to before
Perhaps we are all in the psychiatric ward
This planet of plaintive lunatics
Birth only awakening from amnesia
A few only out of a coma
Remembering slightly a piece of
heaven, perhaps
A name given to hope’s reasoning
But most walking around the blank walls
of the hospital and painting the white with
this...
growth called knowledge
As a lunatic patient I question the mad:
Who is my nurse?
Have I managed to lose sight through
this disease of life that’s infested me
And: in my mad metaphor
I hereby question
is death actually a cure?