Final Trip

I am not a poem person but this was how I felt whenever I went for my routine blood test for my Hyperthyroidism. 

The melancholic feelings became stark as I climbed the overhead bridge and took dreadful steps towards the medical centre for the impending prick. Each passing moment became a pause-in-time. The words that came to me were short and exact.

The stairs are long,

And the steps dreary,

The squarish knob is metal-cold,

And the push heavy.

The room is claustrophobic,

And the air stifling.

The sharp-end stare is bloodcurdling,

But the lady calming.

The goosebumps raised

Hath my left arm braved.

Elbow awkwardly stiffened, 

Fist tightly clenched, 

Nails dug resolutely into the pale flesh.

The prick is certain,

The eyes widen with pain.

'Please end this quick,'

Comes the tiny prayer fix.

The heart is relieved,

And the depraved metal satisfied.

The crimson liquid drips into the plastic,

That will seal my fate, tragic or ecstatic.