Ghost School

I sit in an empty room of my alma mater.
Listening to the soft shuffling of tired feet.
Parents late to see son or daughter.
Some working after learnings complete.

The town of education, a city in the day
And slowly life ebbs off of its street
Pert students itching to get away
Curt to grab paper and stretch feet.

I listen to the ghosts of my learning.
Invisible hands, to answer deaf questions
Ebbs of performances fabricating
Bits and snips of silent lessons.

These are the halls I’ve left behind.
Some days I miss their shelter
Visages still remain of our grind.
Sweet simplistic blissful succor.

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