The Protocol of White Walls

The light is made of needles and of lime, A sterile protocol that has no name. They've mapped the architecture of my crime, And bleached the internal landscape to a frame. Surrender the pulse to the chemical sea! The white-walled vacuum is swallowing the day! There is no 'I' where the protocols be— To wash the remaining history away! The floor is made of cold and polished fear, Where rubber shadows wait to count the beat. The order is the only thing we hear, While memory is dragging through the heat. The name is a number. The face is a blur. In clinical slumber— The cells never stir. A drop of liquid iron in the vein, A bio-chemical map of where we fell. The grid of silence is the only gain, Within this pale and institutional hell.