Human hearts broken,
in broken bodies,
breathing on mental health lock up wards.
Is breathing living?
The pleasure seeking outside society,
uncaring and,
in many cases excused the priority to care.
The commuter drags his way home to a cold house.
Inside his head he asks,
‘is all this I do;
these stifling routines,
only so I can turn the heating system on and eat’?
The patients on those wards like that commuter,
once had to lie to keep their jobs,
then after that they believed those lies,
then their conscience was blown apart,
no one and nothing left to love them better.
Illusions like shining Orchids,
snoring awake people,
enduring to the end game of absurdity.