A broken tale - the residents life

We are candles lit at both ends,

dripping wax on the sterile floor,

measuring time not in hours,

but in heartbeats we help restart.



The wards are our oceans

we swim till the edges blur,

charting storms and sutures,

our breaths tethered to beeping skies.



They say rest will come,

but the clock only smiles, divided

its hands reshuffled on paper,

so daylight looks merciful in ink.



We are told this is how steel is forged,

in fire, not in fairness.

But even steel remembers the burn,

and bends when the flame forgets its purpose.



The theatre lights blind like truth

white, unyielding, endless

and we carve through silence,

learning anatomy from exhaustion.



Each class a mirror of scorn,

where wisdom is replaced by echoes,

and the only thing dissected

is our will to still believe.



Yet somewhere beneath the noise,

beneath the stitched fatigue,

a pulse keeps whispering

not for glory, not for grades,

but for the heart we once held steady,

and the dream that still beats,

quietly, beneath the gown.