Poetry at 1:47

Gray walls surround the class with embezzled texture holding the ceiling. The white board remains empty and the projector shines dull. A looming winter eclipse threatens the shortest afternoon. We all shall leave soon, on to new and merry ways. The Earth will rotate and revolve as memories fade with passing night. Perhaps the room will be silent for the rest of time as air dances to an empty tune. Perhaps we will encase all that can be known – in this room.  

By Patrick Lee