The Waiting Room

Sitting, I stare at the wall, thinking, wishing, hoping
It's the quiet stare of a man uncertain of the words that may come
Waiting for the door to open, the assistant to call a name
I am not alone in my sitting, others are here, waiting all the same
Anxious in the waiting, curious in the news of what is to be

The faces in the room with me betray signs of weakness
Pain, fear, suffering, slight glimmers of joy through the misty tears
We wait as a communal mass with few words but joined all the same
Understood is the unspoken

The door opens and a name rings out, a voice shrill and tart
Eyes watch the young man as slowly he stands, shuffling towards the voice
Another joins those who have already passed through the door
Where the door goes we who wait cannot see - healing we hope, we hope

Shifting in the chairs, uncomfortable in the stagnant air
Our minds turn to passing the time while we push down the worry
Reading of those on the outside who appear healed, doing great things - living
What hope is there for us who wait - can we too be as they are?

Simply, strangely, the time continues as we sit, we wait
Fear claws at our thoughts as the door swings through it motions
Will we be next? What lies beyond? Will we find the living?
It is the waiting that kills, the fears that paralyze, the dead that breathe

Of the greatest irony is this, as we wait, we believe healing is coming
Yet find that the swinging door leads only to that which we fear most
Living begins as the waiting ends - we need healing yet the door leads not there
Free is the feeling that betrays the fear and healing arrives on the wake of freedom
We are not chosen, we choose to be the living or the dead