WEAK AND STRONG
As I sit and wait in the crowded waiting room,
Loneliness fills me.
Everybody is screaming,
painful screams that only equivocate their feelings.
I try to make a sound, but can't be heard.
Hopelessness envelopes my spirit as I sit waiting, wanting, wishing for help to come.
As I look around, I try to see but I am blinded by the bright lights, hyperactivity,
but mostly by the invisible ghosts that are arising from me.
I wonder whether I can somehow answer the cries of the suffering
or understand the pain in other's faces,
Faces which I can neither see because of my blindness,
nor read because of the ghastly shield of subtlety covering each visage.
As I get up to leave, I realize that though everyone in this room has been given a battle
Each soul has a chance to win it.
I see the concept as being more right than wrong,
for without these battles, we wouldn't be able to tell the weak from the strong.