I am sitting here in a room
Eight others surrounding, conversing
Silence falls intermittantly
To let the sound of the song bird in
Through the neatly ajar window
Held up by a whiteboard wiper
That cleans away the marks of the past
The sins of the past, mistakes
That had been made an hour before
For other classes, other conversions
Other sounds of learning and outcome
Here I sit, blinking in the bright
The bright sunlight that will never let go
Piercing, holding, onto our sight and
Making this subject of academia
All the harder, all the more impossible
As the words come in, filling our ears
One cannot adhere to everything
Cling to every phoneme
That is uttered from pink lips
For it is near perverse to require
A being to listen for two straight hours
Then study five after that
And the next day work ten after that
More and on and further and farther
Demands growing as we age
The world becoming more difficult
As the age of retirement slips on
Sixty ... Sixty-five ... Seventy
By our age it will be eighty
They say, the researchers say
Those who hunker over wooden desks
Detailing our lives with beurocracy
There is politics, and there is ethics
And they will never go hand in hand
But just call for us to keep motivated
As more percentage of us slips further
Into mental instability
So comes the future
So comes the inevitable life
As we sit here in a white room
Sun peering in through the window
On a winter day, on the wake of spring
Blossoms aching to bloom but in no way
Reflecting ourselves as we are
Exhausted beyond reason
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