The Dream

Eight grey rows, stretched end to end,
Hours spent, that blur and blend,
Sea of faces, string of words,
Always a test, marching towards 

Navigate the narrow aisles,
Line the lockers, turn the dials,
Another day on brick red floors
Wheeling out then in the freezer doors

To return home, weak and weary,
To pour over longer some new-learned theory,
For just a brief time, until bed calls,
Tomorrow walking the very same halls

And through the tears and through the sweat, 
It’s so easy to forget
This all is a part of the grandest dream,

So hold yourself in high esteem.

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