Dispatcher

[slavyori]

I rise from my grave, another dawn to witness.
With shaking hands, a stomach is filled.
Static flows, monitors blink.
A prayer whispered, a prayer unanswered.
​

The voices flow to life, a crackle of electronics
A cry of pain.
He asks me for help
I answer with false hope.
The dead man thanks me.

I rise from my grave, the sun taunts me.
Dirty oil anoints my head.
With bloody hands, my cup overflows.
​

A mother tells me her woes.
She tells me her sins.
But I am no priest.
The mother dies alone.​

I rise from my grave.



​

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Themed around a 911 dispatcher during the outbreak
​