A stone faced gorgon, swathed in a dank mosaic of sludge and black,

Her sharpened towers point upwards, piercing the sky like the devil’s lonely fork. 

Pinned in her tightening grasp, the sick and silent, the grey clothed bodies 

drown in a flurry of confusion,  trudge through time from pill to pill.

Shuddering and sleeping, crackling with energy and LJ Meduna’s electrical cure,

The faceless ooze along her corridors, platelets in her veins, while the cotton clothed angels 

comfort and cajole.

Her garden is sodden with lost souls. The slot thin graves embellished with echoes and lead silences.

Interred with pitiless efficiency, the names remain unwritten by chisel or pen.

Yet bird swarms cackle in swirling tribute, a shrieking orison for blank palls long folded and forgotten.

But she does not forget, forcing up weeds amongst the waving grasses,

wretched  wreathes worm skywards embracing rough earth and stone.

She is queen of the unfortunates, empress of the insane.

Her shocking crown of volts forced down upon

the world weary heads. It draws memories, not blood.

She is forced to remember each cruelty, they are reflected in her square glass eyes. 

In her fragmenting foundations. She cannot forget . They are her children