Corridors Poem by Ben Littlechild

On and on they go,
Stretching out in every way
Veins of the hospital beast
In them travels all kinds of faces
Staff, family and patients all travelling to different places.
Cleaners mow the invisible grass, shiny surfaces clear as glass.

In the twilight of the night, echoes of foot falls resound throughout.
A ghost town it has become.
But in the morning, feet return and the hospital creature wakes from its slumber.