The Waiting Room
Updated: Jul 18, 2021
Copies of photocopies hang on the wall.
My eyes fall on a tattered poster bleached by the sun.
Idly, I wonder if it felt the staples.
Paper snowflakes hang apologetically.
They shiver at the sputter of a nearby vent,
one just barely clinging,
I stare at the plate of gingerbread men
on the coffee table.
They stare back.
I walk to the bathroom with
the echo of my footsteps.
Echoes make terrible company.
As I wash my hands with
the saccharine choke of
pink passion soap
I gaze into the unsettling void
between mirrors when
you see what an infinity
of yourself looks like
The waiting room is still empty.
I let my eyes fall shut a second, or two.
The fan spins around in a visual reverb,
flashing and fading its repeating florescent fragments,
He must increase, but I must decrease.
And those who belong to Christ Jesus have crucified the flesh with its passions and desires.
For whoever would save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for my sake and the gospel's will save it.
For to me to live is Christ, and to die is gain.