Public School

Consciousness emerges,
clumsy and blundering,
pushing with unsure but empowered force
from the depths of a warmer place
of blissful simplicity
that cannot exist elsewhere,
or could, if only someone were to think less of this elsewhere.

Struggles against churning seas of dense fleece and polyester,
trudges forward through air that sears the skin
with icy brutality,
stumbles from tiny world to world,
fumbles with thick fingers to apply things atop things,
to cover and adorn,
mask and disguise,
protect from further searing.

Rumbles in a haze through colder climates,
takes place in cells of metal,
sitting on metal, beside metal, behind metal,
hearing metal.
Wanders, a dying hum of vitality, through cold hallways
whose lifeless influence sinks deeper and deeper
with each passing moment of submergence.
Like an ice cube melting quickly in warm water,
except you are warm, and you are what's melting.

While miles away,
in a world warmed and created by that vitality,
a longing to create, to learn, to inspire, to explore,
hums louder than any that can be transported,
thrives in its individuality,
and yearns for the missing piece that has forced itself so far from home,
to attempt to operate in warmth in other worlds,
but instead drains and flickers
and comes near to dying before it returns home.