Pantomime

Moving daubs of pale blue
Silent, with chilled efficiency
Floating amidst stark white.
A bleeping red pulse dot
Within a box of plastic and
Snaking metal on silicon.
A clockwork box bubbling
And pumping fumes besides
A reclining cot of cold metal.
Canned and pressurized within
An aging torpedo flaking green,
Hissing oxygen, every other hour.
Needle tipped plastic veins
Dripping 'life-savers' into
Tired sluggish blood plumbing.
Struggling reluctantly to keep 
That proverbial fire going, the two
Forlorn, fatigued bellows within the chest;
For next door lives a mass of muscle
For whom is this entire pantomime,
Beating mechanical in black melancholy.
The past months have been eons,
The past week an eternity.