Clinic Yellow

The hum of lights, a low, persistent sound,

no comfort here, on sterile, tiled ground.

Just waiting, for my name, my turn to come,

the air itself, a dull, electric drum.

And yellow walls, not cheerful, not quite bright,

but sick, institutional, under harsh light.

A shade that clung, absorbed and held me tight,

a muted scream against the coming night.

It pressed in close, this color, flat and raw,

a silent, bland, oppressive, psychic law.

No window, just this muted, jaundiced hue,

reflecting nothing, old and grim and true.

And in that quiet, where the hours crawled,

I felt its pale, dull presence, unappalled,

just settling deep, into my weary bone.

Not quite alone, yet utterly unknown.