Another hour clocked away,

The sounds of the operating room stiffened:

Only the snip, slit and clicks of tools revealing more tissue

Patient and determined faces eyeing the opened chest.

Half hidden with masks.

You see the surgeon raise then open his hand and mutter “Scalpel.”

That silver that scattered the brightened lights narrowing slowly into a deep dive 

Eyes wince, anticipation building 

And again without a hitch, the patient remains free from a six foot deep pit.

Were they awake they’d celebrate.

A timed break feels like only a pause on fate,

It’s time for the surgeon to take his break.

It won’t be long before they play the song and the dance begins again

In this time the surgeon’s mind plots an escape, however finds nowhere safe, only organs, vessels and flesh pick at the surgeon’s brain like a tailor unpicking a seam. 

Tired and troubled and running in circles, the patient haunts his thoughts and troubles. 

Lagged to static, the surgeon pauses and his heart pauses its rhythm. It was for just one moment, miraculously life follies along: heart beating readily.

The surgeon thinks like as if mechanic and somehow sustains himself from collapsing into panic, 

What monotonous action, that alien sensation, bloodied hands on tight blue gloves; saving someone’s life.