560 – Sisyphus

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

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.