Under The Knife

In sterile halls, where shadows lie, A blade awaits, beneath a cold, bright eye. My heart implodes, a frantic drum, As fear itself takes hold and numbs.

Will I wake up, whole once more? Or drift away, and wake no more? These are the thoughts that plague my mind, As reason struggles to unwind.

But hope remains, a fragile thread, That whispers soft, “You won’t be dead.” So I take a breath, and try to trust, In surgeon’s skill, and surgeon’s dust.