Looking out the library window.

Crows wheel around the sky,
dull, wet clouds inch by-
the tired trite toll of time.

The spokes of the fans rotate,
the race of tapping fingers escalates-
it is already nearly too late.

Figures hunch over every bench,
tired, like soldiers in a trench-
with knowledge, each trying itself to drench.

Voices are hushed,
footsteps rushed-
silence lurks in the carpets lush.

For there is work to be done,
and all else shall be shunned-
until it is time again for joy's return.

But it is not time yet for joy's return.



~Sam
It sucks, doesn't it?