It was a gray day
and my red shirt was warm in the cold whoosh
the scary painting over there beckons the eye
but the horror colors cant hold mine.
And the green shimmery peace of trees' breath on water
my cinnamon hair is soft against my face
The voice of the teacher softly drones of Frost and Salinger
good old Salinger

Suddenly through the whoosh comes the sound of a door
a big heavy door, the kind they used to have in my old school
a warm brown, and taller than I
a Rye colored door

But I know it is probably just the protest
of one of these cloned desks
as someone moves molto in it
and I neglect to turn and look
(its just the line of paintings along the wall anyways)