The Angel of the Room.

A ponderous silence is borne in the midst of time run out and suffering. Languages, the tongues of the world, fill not the silence, but foment it against the oppressed.  A wail burdens greater the hearts of the visiting and the bedridden alike, the anthem of this life-forsaken corridor. Breaths once drawn linger with breaths still extracted; lungs of the past mingled with the lungs of the dying. And yet, the state of dying here is no more present than the dying the living go through – the Master of our lives has a mind indiscernible.  Time has no solace here; reminded of its mortality relative to its partakers, it flees to find some comfort in youth. And so, nurses entirely cold yet seemingly warm greet those they never hope to know or understand, simply fulfilling their duties, no more and no less.  The beauty of this task is in the eyes of the beholder; they are the sentinels of life and preservation all to themselves. Stethoscopes lay lifeless upon the shoulders of the uniformed, no clear expression painted on their masks. The vague ambience of the beige-clad room roams the premises, stifling the positive and leaving them the pensive.  Arms folded, an international symbol here in this mesh of nations.  Sighs, the war cry of its people.  The soul’s great trespass is to pick itself up in the presence of future carnage.  The carcass of hope is left at the door.  The hours sift by, the grandeur of time made an eternal jest in the face of the present.  Time is the master of life, but the hope in a greater Master alone sustains the anxious. Whatever the outcome, our great privilege is in death, dying unto a life eternal with our Lord. It is one thing to believe this and be encouraged as a spotless bystander; the passing are the fortunate unfortunate, breathing each potential last, scanning the ceiling for a glimpse of the coming Savior.

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