Liquid iron flows through the clear tube A rusted scent floods the air Bandages cover the tattered "armor" If flesh could be compared to thick plating Drip. Drip. Drip. The only sound that isn’t mechanical whirring Or agonizing beeping from the little box That screen beside the bed
Some strangers walk in with paper in hand
Saying strange words in somber tones
Yet there's a lightness to it all
Like clouds resting just above that gurney
Who's to say what's real in your head?
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