A bird could be heard in the garden,
tweeting it's song to the world,
that of which was listening anyway.
Everywhere else the scratching of pen to paper
was never as annoying as now, sitting in the warmth
of the inferno that was my future.
One time they asked us to sit there whilst we witnessed
the horror of a poor spider being squashed
by the books of History. Never mind.
Tick-Tock went the clock, constantly,
never moving, never changing.
Time seemed to stand still which always seemed to
make everyones live hell in that room.
Everyone waiting, hushed into panic, frantically
straining their minds to nothing, only to produce nothing