Notes from the Waiting Room

Sitting in stillness, the scent thick with dread,

where antiseptics mingle with all that is said.

The sharpness of cleaning, a whisper of fear,

a reminder that life can be fleetingly near.

Plastic chairs cling to stories, each person a ghost,

a collection of worry, of what matters most.

As hope hangs in the air, faint and undone,

the smell of tomorrow bleeds under the sun.