The Constant Visitor

In the Name of the Compassionate and Infinitely Merciful Precious Beloved

True it is that I have no role
In treatment course so wisely devised
Indeed I do not even possess a soul
Still I pray thee make perception revised

I am neither cold, nor hard of heart
Though thus it may seem to untrained eye
Full of hope, am I, from the very start
That end of despair will always be nigh

If given the chance to bring forth speech
Reams of scroll could I pen with ink
Would that I be given ability to beseech
And let go that which causes me to sink

I would cry out that I, too, felt searing pain
Weep, did I, when needle made its sting
I did not even make a face of disdain
When dangerous rhythm made alarm ring

When storm of illness passes over in peace
Joy moves over all that I hold
When pain and horror can finally cease
I, too, am relieved when good news is told

Would that I can extend an arm
To grieving loved one as they scream
After patient loses the battle against harm
To bring comfort to the living is my dream

And though it seems my demeanor be callous
As the critically ill ebb and flow about me
I swear I have neither jot nor tittle of malice
In fact they go with my wholehearted felicity

Yet I am not doctor, technician, or nurse
Flesh, skin, and blood is not mine
At times, it seems to me to be a curse
That I am simply ICU Room 109

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