Sterile halls and fluorescent light, Where human pain is bought and sold, Calculated in the dead of night, Turned to silver, turned to gold.
A siren wails, a ledger grows, They charge a fortune for the ride, A rigid rule that never knows The quiet panic held inside.
Itemized upon a sheet, Every breath a hidden cost, Where compassion takes a back seat, And basic decency is lost.
They trade in fear, they trade in care, With hidden costs and padded claims, While people bleed or breathe thin air, Reduced to numbers and to names.
No room for peace, no room for grace, Just cold compliance, fee by fee, A market in a holy place, That charges just to set you free.
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Author:
Lewis O’Carroll (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: August 31st, 2026 02:10
- Comment from author about the poem: A poetic critique of the U.S. healthcare industry—exploring how corporate profit, predatory billing, and rigid institutional bureaucracy often override human empathy and genuine patient care.
- Category: Reflection
- Views: 1
Offline)
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