Two classes she takes
back to back
Devouring our soul
a tasty snack
Screeching her way
through page after page
Painter of death
painting a new image
The clock has stopped
she has slowed down time
We tug at our hair and weep
she assumes we are fine
Even Iraqi torturers
follow the Geneva convention
She shrugs her shoulder
and continues the derivation
She jibes and laughs
None see her humour
She targets our brain
like a malignant tumour
Like thirsty nomads in the Sahara desert
we claw our way through dust and dirt
Barely surviving, we wander away
Pondering over what awaits us the next day.
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