A Visit to Wellington Ward (The Royal London Hospital)

To be thrown onto the slag heap, exhausted, the usefulness drained out of you.

The callous cracks under your feet, toenails hardened, skin dried, and face drawn.

Withdrawn, speaking in drawls, all that is left are the memories, there is nothing else to console you, and even this tease and deceives you.

In your mind, the thoughts flash and disappear, images cannot be grasped, resigned, you descend into confusion.

You stare into the abyss: a place where no one hears your fears.

Resident at Wellington Ward, the irony is that it is named after a national hero.

A life worth living — was this what you planned and lived for? Staring at the walls of desolation in the human factory. On the discarded heap, you cannot be recycled. There is no longer a use for you.

Residing in the gloom, forgotten, your soul long far gone.

The people walk down the corridor, they could be your mother, or your father coming to take you away. The things you remember, your hopes, dreams and desires. Melancholy calls like all those yesterdays that merge into one.

A life to contemplate, sitting in isolation, head bowed resigned to your fate. There is nothing left to live for. Another tray of tasteless food, thrown onto a plate. Back to the womb, being feed like a baby, but this is not your mother.

You are a child abandoned. You were once somebody’s father, mother, husband, wife, someone’s hero, you were once a human being with hope, dreams and desires.

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