The Wards are Always Wheeling

    The  wards  are  always  wheeling.

The   repugnant   with  fear  and  anxiety

Wards  are overflowing  now .

Ambulance and   No clearance are

There  from morn  to eve.

No  longer  an  eyesore, but

A customization. Customization

For  what?  To adaptability

Of  man’s moribund , dead cells.

Oh! God  when will this come to an end?

Unabated  fire  of  ire, this  blood  bath

 Fail  The Messiah’s  inspiring   words.

Ego  and    vendetta   and  craze

For  power, can you stop  the  list,

Submerge  the dictum  of  peace

Into  ignoble  tunnel of humdrum

Harsh realities of existence.

What  can  the walls do?

Or the  wards  speak?

They  silently  wail

Along  the victims .

Oh! God ! when will

This come to an end?

Church  bells on  cliff

Blow in   ponderous vain.