The Class. Poem by Elle McKay

The Class.



40 minutes left.
too tired.
words come...
barely.
drifting
slipping away
white board fades...
paper cushion
plastic mattress
gone.
left.
free.
unending calm,
serenity.
complete relaxation.
cold metal
jerked back into the
sound.
unending torture,
question. answer.
30 minutes left.

COMMENTS OF THE POEM
READ THIS POEM IN OTHER LANGUAGES
Close
Error Success