My First Day
My mother kissed me as I clung to my father’s knee.
I wanted to go home, I screamed, beg and plead.
But the school gates are open, after the teacher rung the bell.
I could only see my mother’s eyes, as the last grain of sand fell.
The classroom was empty, the air starched and dry.
One steel desk stood in the middle; I went to sit and cried.
The teacher bended down to greet me, her callus hands were icy cold.
I candidly shook them, my trembling heart cannot behold
that the axes and flames were no-where near
nor that creaking chariot I often hear
in the dead of dreams on countless nights
envisioning existing without feeling light.
She was not what I imagined; she was withered, wise and gray.
She was sharply dress in white, to meet me on my first day.
Our lesson began promptly, when the clock tick to nine.
As the hands stuttered past eight, I could not bear to look behind.
She went to shut the classroom door and the darkness slowly swarmed round.
My life unraveled before me, I’m buried beneath the mound.
The textbook on my desk never open, she never spoke at all.
She flaccidly pointed to the chalkboard, for the writing was on the wall.
It was chiseled in stone, the chalked frayed on both ends.
The words are meaningless, yet for me to comprehend.
As I read it out loud with one last gasping breath,
I said my morbid goodbyes on my first day with Death.
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