Sit in the rickety desk
Clock ticking too slowly
A rescue orders retribution
So waiting is what has been and what will be.

The voice continues to trouble its toxic intellect
Holding high court until the ruler
The almighty tone and teller of time
Sounds a sweet dissonance

Like cattle we rumble
Across the single hall
Somehow too small
For its few inhabitants
Head down, desperate thunder
Of footsteps too afraid to flee

Don’t ask another presumably asinine question
Or else your “friends” will look back
Eyes turned to glass
The teacher won’t bother to notice
And no answer will be revealed.

Pray, the history teacher would always say
Forgiveness is within him
But my sins are not sins to me
I refuse to shy from asking why
I will not stay to erase what is plain to see

Crucifixes fixated on how I
Cannot fix what isn’t wrong
I am not alone nor am I unarmed
And sometimes the fear hurts more than the fire

This world is shared and depended on
By all who hold life in half-closed hands.
Fighting for righteousness is not what I planned
But we are all judged by the prejudices we justify