A series of trap doors led to my entry
Into an evil funhouse I fell,
no means to escape.
Low light and darkness
limit my view,
slow my progress.
A maniacal clown’s cackle
echoes in my ears,
each laugh casting judgement,
my not accepting my fate.
Wavy infinity mirrors project me
with a mastectomy,
a foreign body.
Peeling nails, falling hair,
blacklight zones with strobe lights.
Air puffs drip news,
blood level changes,
another side effect.
Brown textured plastic cushions,
a Hill-Rom recliner cradles me
through the maze corridors,
the spinning tunnel, the infusion.
Color-changing perspectives glimpse
false walls and crooked doors,
lead to therapy and support groups.
Sliding shaking floors,
instability and stumbles.
Searching for the exit slide.