The P O E M I S T
High-windowed hall all sun streaked and floating dust,
Figures all rowed at tiny desks, bare knees bent.
One moment in time shapes my future past,
Paper questions, question my life's intent.
Wrong answers, wrong life, no time to repent.
Nobody asks: "Are you ready for this?"
Poem © The Postcardist: 2017
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Last updated: 20th, Feb, 2017