A white coat and face masks

They say the color white brings calamity;
feelings of purity that light the
darkest of our sorrows.
It's the essence of freedom in a world
of restricted principles and insecure emotions.
I only found abandonment within it.
For the walls were achromatic bare on the eyes;
so desolate and lonely that it seemed  
to devour even the blackest of pigments.
 
But it was the presence of a white coat
upon alabaster skin that was truly blinding.
Snaked around the body of a statuette man
that seemed to mimic the stench of death
perfumed throughout dense air with reaper promises.
His identify obscured by the bindings of a mask,
identical to the very one I wore in fear of inviting
the devil into the lungs of a broken man  
who lied in premature ruin before me.
 
I have never felt as hollow as I did that day.
Watching calmly as a monster withered
like the most delicate rose in existence.
I was strangled raw by alexithymia,
foreign to any grief over a criminal  
I had grown to honestly resent.
Mesmerized by how cancer had taken those  
callused prison features and crafted humane  
sadness the way only real sickness can.
I felt a piece of me rot inside,
deteriorating alongside his crippled body.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
I once believed the only spectrum hell produced  
was a stream of bloody regret and stygian penance,
but I now realize it is the brightest void in abyss.