there shall be a slow churning of chaos in our veins.
an unpinned, uncertain future of days that comes with tightrope walking
over a vast open field full of dark dew, fairy-ed fireflies, mint stung clover, and pennyless thoughts.
vague plans crowd our dream filled memories;
there is no bridge across the channel
to sensibility, instead we must hang down upon it,
muck our way through the crowded
days, no direction, no compass,
tromping through the moored wet grass
clinging petals at the hem of our soaked feet
until we pull ourselves up
into our desks at autumns gate.
sweaty legged in scratchy classroom air,
blow the shavings of wood and crushed lead off our pencils,
sitting down to scribble instruction once more.