Poorly Printed Yearbook

Wind chimes help remind them
there is something outside
all that they take shelter in.
They run the pens against
the bleached off color whiteness
of the papers they are handed
with the lines they need to cover
with their names.
There isn’t time for them to play
their games and take their morning
slowly like they should.
A piece of everyone knows
that this is mostly good
because without the redirected
there would be no one
to give orders to at all.
The end of a day of school
is so explosive the whole town
must be slowed down
to keep a hold of it.
As if so many in the space
between their masters would
take everything apart,
and even so who could deny
it isn’t needed?
I waste my film on what
I know I cannot see
with just the instincts
in the center of my eye,
but in the sky there is another
looking down.
You’ll never know me while
I’m wrapped in all this sound,
but that’s the point of all this
anyway. To keep ourselves away
from what is fated.

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