The echo of heartbeats near the newfound graves,
With the first breath of life and the last sigh of death
Waving to each other in the night.
Birthdays and funerals march along in unison, doors apart.
Faces in scrubs rise and set with the sun,
While those stuck in bed can only change their gowns, and wait.
The rhythmic beeps of machines
And the clack of shoes on the linoleum floor
Sing a comforting melody.
Armed with stethoscopes, and potions that drip into veins,
They are puzzle-masters.
Sometimes though, a piece may be missing,
Or warped to no avail.
It is magic to some,
Pulling rabbits out of hats.
But behind the puff of smoke,
All that remains is a simple person with simple tools.
Wards filled with mysteries and miracles big and small.