Under the Doctor’s Ceiling

Yellow tiles, cracked and stained,

a grid where time has long remained.

Fluorescent flicker, pale and weak,

a ceiling that does not speak.

A water mark, a ghostly trace,

shadows stretching across the space.

Years folded in paint peeling slow,

where forgotten sicknesses grow.

I sit beneath that faded skin,

dreading futures trapped within.

A cracked tile, a brittle scar—

looking up, where memories are.