Televisions blaring at three patients
who wait for tomorrows monotony.
Before you go mad they never do tell you
how dreadfully boring it all becomes.
Pills in the morning for schizophrenics
become a dull, thrice-daily ritual.
Someone says something insane and inane,
and everybody pretends that all's well.
There's nothing to live for in nursing homes;
no goals, no future, no life, just boredom.
Watching your own delusions on TV,
or discussing the past with the patients
are the sorts of things that become routine,
when one is confined to a nursing home.
Confined chaos in a red-brick building:
patients are different yet all the same.
Drugged on big pharma's newest offerings,
its a banal, meaningless existence.
How does one escape from spiritual death
that lingers in the halls of such a place?
Find beauty! Fall in love! Refuse to crumble!
And one may escape from oblivion.