CLASS ROOMS (Poem)

 

A puddle of uniformed identities, 
Staring at black and white knowledge,
 Eyes, some eager, some drowsy, 
Trained to limit their vision to within the walls of the class,
 Never straying beyond the panes of the window, 
There is a chink at the corner, 
And the world tries to sneak in unmindful of the sharp shards of glass,
 It is shunned and tagged a “distraction”.
 Here and there often of a brain cracks and leaks
 Redolent imagination that indelibly stains wherever it drips,
 It is promptly swept away using the dry papers from weighty tomes.
 No one moves, 
Bulbous eyes faithfully follow the trail of the white chalk,
 The clock ticks and a bell rings. 
The puddle of uniformed identities muzzle their senses and file away 
Towards a repeat of today.



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