Between my shadow and my soul

The Unrightness of written rites

There's something ridiculously ironic
About pens zigzagging across color coded pages
Symbolising all we've had, them and I
As if these reams of scattered phrases
Are meant to be their rite of passage. I would rather
Some perception of mine follow them through the examination door
Where they're not behind a desk but rather in front of a wheel
Steering a life, a career, livelihoods, families, organisations,
And their own development
And even if in one moment out of a hundred thousand some concept, 
Remark, realisation is brought to life
My next decade of teaching will be indebted
Definitively in my mind, 
One's mark is not quantitative. For either of us...

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