A school desk lies in a pile of rubble- remnants of a one-time school,
last testaments to ancient dreams of hopeful teenaged fools.
Worthless graffiti-ridden junk it seems, no more.
None take heed of memories, the moments that it stores.
See here, upon the desk face "Mr Smith's a.." word scratched out.
Replaced by "really cool guy", an opinion turned about.
What the former insult, or what caused the injury
is alas not known, but here a turning point we see.
Now read around that first piece. See the heart scrawled just above?
There "X 4 Y" is writ inside by one scared to name love.
And further up- you see this note?- the author is the same,
yet changed now by some unseen force, for see: initialed names.
I've studied faded scratches and memories abound
To many they will seem mundane, but some are quite profound.
Many times 'tis the replies wherein the stories lay
"Thomas Jameson is a queer" "No I'm not, I'm gay."
What courage Thomas must have found. How long did he prepare
to admit what seemed stigmatic then and boldly write it there?
What price did poor young Thomas pay for five such little words
Read through these tales of people's lives then tell me it's absurd.
If these were letters writ in ink on pages in a book
the tome would caref'ly be preserved for future's child to look.
Why do we wantonly destroy so much of our own past?
Think of all that we have lost and say you're not aghast.
There is a history contained in how this desk was made,
technology, and techniques used are in it's joints outlaid.
But greater yet, in my opine, the stories in it scratched.
They show that emotions we feel were by ancestors matched.
They tell us that these people felt and in brief sentence say
that though we have evolved some more yet we are them today.