05 3 / 2012
Hard steps across the hallway,
Terrifying ding is heard,
This happens every Tuesday,
As choking as milk with curd.
He makes his way to the table,
I hurry on the flight of stairs,
I hear the traditional babble,
“Come down to face the glares!”
"Pour sweetness in your glassware,
I’ll fill your sheets with scribbles,
Come closer and you’ll do well.”
My thoughts can’t help but dribble.
Somehow your image lingers,
Exclusively I can see it,
Control the wooden fingers,
The candles are to be lit.
He asks me why I’m drowsy,
You’re still there, oh, so wretched,
My thoughts are always bouncy,
Hoping dreams are fetched.