Poetry

In Defense of Scansion

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In the silence of the classroom,
I unseal the pages —
well-thumbed and eager,
scented with the musk of stale joy.
Words,
they leap,
expectant as sunrise,
yet the desks sit sprawling,
each an archipelago of indifference.

I speak,
my voice longing to bridge
the chasm between my passion
and their muted presence.
The air thickens with silence,
as heavy as red velvet curtains
after the final act.

Lines of verse unfurl,
raw and vibrant,
flares sent up into the apathy
of afternoon stupor.
I pray for a spark,
for eyes to ignite,
to catch fire
with fleeting wonder.

But they sit,
still,
barely casting dim light,
like headlights
running on a dying battery.
Poetry, an ancient echo
they are unable to perceive
over the cacophony
of modern instant gratification.