Terminus
A terminus,
this waiting room in which we sit,
a left-luggage office
where, wrapped in blue gowns,
human packages
sit restless,
waiting to be claimed.
Tagged with a label on the wrist,
we wait here,
abandoned for a moment to our fate.
Our choices disappeared
the moment we walked in here
and surrendered ourselves to the system.
Now we lack free will
and freedom of choice,
yet still we wish to choose
our destinations,
not knowing that terminal
and terminus both mean
nec plus ultra:
the Pillars of Hercules,
the end of the world as we knew it,
and our own world’s end.
rogermoorepoet 
Human packages … waiting to be claimed. Indeed.
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At first, when I knew nobody, the loneliness and fear were so distressing. Bit by bit, I made friends and others helped me and we formed a united front against the common enemy. If my words can help others, I will be well pleased and very proud.
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It is a healthy approach – to form communities that can bolster one another up. Friends make all the difference in the world. đź’ś
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Delayed | cakeordeathsite
https://cakeordeathsite.wordpress.com/2017/01/20/delayed/…. we must have been thinking on similar lines.
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I have a thing myself for terminus and train stations… did you read my poem Delayed which is quite similar?
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I see it above. I’ll read it next. Thanks for posting it here.
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No problem.
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Tagged with a label on the wrist,
we wait here,
abandoned for a moment to our fate
This, as well as the rest of it, is excellent
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Thanks, Shane. Some of these memories are still very clear. So glad you like the poem. Thanks for visiting and commenting.
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Interesting, Roger. You captured that feeling of hopeful helplessness beautifully.
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Thanks, Tanya. It’s the nec plus ultra that used to get me … so far and no further.
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The wrist bracelet is interesting … reminded me of the baby’s bracelet worn when they first identify a newborn.
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That’s exactly what it is. All your medical secrets and the patient number for the day. Tagged and ready for delivery.
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