The brown haired girl gave me a look, the irish girl asked for more,
We searched for paths with tree roofs, and floors of autumn rot.
Studenthood raped us, only the light of late spring blanched us,
And reflections of cherished memories hid the empty rooms.
Cantering, galloping. Legs buckled, why must they buckle?
Do not buckle.
Heads faint. The blonde girl she made me weak, she winked.
Nestling, together on the bench, in a fake morning mist
The smell of weed, perspiring like night's rank sweat.
Ashen faced, shivering, but patiently waiting we sit.
Listening, straining to hear the hoarse murmurs,
Through England's boreal wind.
Do you hear them?
No I don't.
Are you sure?
Yes I am.
We sat at desks that screamed, as obscurity to mind yields
And young voices of morning sing last night's promise of vomit.
The Insomniac reawakens. The trailing shadows of vapour,
Black tea and coffee greet. Only the horizonless ideas are escaping
In the fortitude of our rooms, where silence does not scare us.
Some sunlight pierces,
A Laptop hums,
And the work is done.
The bespectacled redhead shyly smiles, she is beautiful.
The scratch of pens on paper, vibrates. The mustard
lecture lights. Books are clenched. Apathy, and intent.
Bent silhouettes, like webbed roots conflate and part
In a dance of felicity. Slender thoughts meet reality.
And it must end. Please don't end. Panacea of life.
