560 – Sisyphus

The patch
Wouldn’t hold,
At least not for long.

But he couldn’t do more,
Except hope
And pray.

He looked at his hands,
Covered in somebody else’s blood,
And sighed.

The sirens kept wailing,
Muffled
By the sound of gunfire.

He looked at the next name
And its gruesome notes
On the list.

Another broken young body
To patch and mend
So it could be sent back to die.

But what else could he do?

He was a doctor,
He had to save lives.

He washed his hands
And wished he could forget
How to care,
Or at least remember
How to cry.

• • •

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