Morning Class

The lines twist & turn

Burdened with branches

Settling smugly on

wood, concealing years

of scribblings, and more

Those grits of gold pour

in, with wind's whispers,

Sashaying softly

Tracing crevices

and leaving shadows.

His voice, vaulting the

heads, like a lion

Slicing swiftly through

air, intruding on

fantasies at morn'

These fingers frolic,

indulging in their

dance, defying the

orbs surveying through

glasses that twinkle

This mind maims the will

Drifting, dodging an

army of arrows

but, it will slowly

subvert the body

A boy bent over

his books, bowed like an

oak tree. Oblivious,

to stares aplenty

He's out and gone cold.