The ceiling becomes hot at noon
Unleashing mirages in this loon
The blackboard swirls in mid-air
held aloft in the palms of examiner
And words seem to spit at me
at it being so uninspired, devoid of reason
The pen nods in agony at the thought
but it is trained to write and think-not
Buses and cars brush by the ears
and nails and prods bite my back
Endless lines stretch till my death
waiting for it to be filled by reason.
The reasoner has lost his will
And thinks about his phone bill
which has set upon scaling heights
With unseen calls on late-nights
Those that fade, appear in dreams
so sweet a pain, but not in the dawn
Screams and screeches wake up the alarm
Torn pieces of paper ruffle by the eyes
till it is shut and safely put away
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