Dead poets' society-2
Image by Annie Spratt
As past wounds scarred
but sealed in a deep pit
Are rekindled and showcased to the eyes.
How does the rectangular box in the museum
Spin like a wheel?
Taking me through
All the boisterous and blasphemous things in the past
Bringing all the wounds to the surface
In the fastest whirlpool, I know of.
It rained words,
We spoke of everything under the sun.
Our room ceilings wondered
if they filtered anything at all.
They evidently did.
Straining all the true words
and seeped in the stories,
that made no sense,
to humans in the blasphemous past.
In the end,
the strained true words waited.
Waited to be unleashed
to the humans in the blasphemous,
but also boisterous past,
Crushing the walls of the museum
and wheeling to the present;
It still awaits
And meanwhile,
The dead poets' society came live
Through those strained true words,
Unsaid, unattended, awaiting.
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