An end to illness

My footsteps echo in the halls

Almost emptied for the night.

Yet behind these cold white walls

Are many a gruesome sight.

Fevered faces turn to red,

Others turned an ashen gray,

Pain here reigns and joy has fled

And never can be coaxed to stay.

I slip inside, close the door.

My work here they mustn't see.

If they did then nevermore

Could I set these patients free.

For my cure, in their small minds

Is aberrant and ill-fate;

But I must help, and be kind,

Even if it calls their hate.

Every illness I can end,

Stop the festering despair.

Every patient I attend,

Is the better for my care.

But, alas, they cannot see,

And condemn with every breath.

Me, who acts with only mercy,

They call the Angel of Death.