The classroom is a cemetery; my camera is my corpse.

Nobody dares to question the ever-apparent old widow,

“Her lover passed a long time ago.” They’d say.

We’ve developed a liking for dirt,

Some get carried away by its taste-

Like dusty sugar, frozen cotton-candy.

We are all dead, but only some rest in peace,

others, constantly yearning to live once again.

The widow keeps us locked within our caskets,

Her lazy footsteps, always scraping above us.

Constantly reminding us that we’re dead.

Some choose to believe her,

Others, like myself, know she’s wrong.

Her lover was creativity.

Her lover was passion.

But a new ring grasps her finger.

A ring that shines so thickly dark, it threatens the midnight sky.