The Institution

Blank walls surround an empty room, and I sit,
Sit on the floor, clad in whites, and ordered a simple word of patience.
A ticking clock is faint in the distance, distorted to the sounds of my irregular pulse.
It rises with frustration, and it fades with depletion.
I am worn. Worn from the battles of a mental strife,
Worn as the soles of my pacing feet, waiting, waiting,
For what, I no longer know.
All that is known, is that Time has claimed another victim,
In its mockery of “patience”.