An Interpretation

Death

A cold sheet, one line

you.

A street covered with sod

horridly even,

manicure obsession

Lack of robust bean, cup, morning conversation

The breeze from the musty hallway
white tiles, scattering nurses
brushes my skin,

not to welcome but to rest assure

the final electronic note, impulse, rogue shade

is approaching

The doctor's scalpel tells you it will only hurt for a second

But you know
while exposed

That the pain is only the beginning

Death,
only hospitals share such sorrow.