Alyssa's Taking Notes in Classroom by the Light of the Summer Sun.

Nobody's dust idled through the window
Light lay dappled on white stained wooden cheeks
Blood drained deep from the constant threat
Of clumsily poured acids, or sustances more evil still
We sat and eyed as shadows claw along the window sill.
Not so much summer on mute in the background
Or the idler child's own scritching sounds (hands of the Devil)
But the tranquilising drone of a man who knows it all.
Somehow we are to blame - too young, too dumb, too innocent
Of bookwork at least. It gets easire to let silence vent
In a subtle trip to nowhere-land for release.
If it weren't for scritch-scratching and the idle hum of teaching
We'd not find ourselves marooned on this far side of sleep
Where eyes and limbs join hands in lengthy cruel dances termed 'notes'
While minds run free a thousand miles off.
Yet summer's dusty breath dies silent on the benches
No one but shadows stir to give either the burial they deserve.
We sense a strange brotherhood, ties of kinship more exotic than blood
Motes of ink drift sporadically on our page, dead to the world
Till we turn the pressed paper leaf and bury it in the past.