They are white and charged,
Charged like me but inert,
No hormonal discretion or control.
In small villages, children study at night,
It’s a luxurious thing,
Urban – a right to discharge.
How sickly, medicated and calm,
How dingy for someone so bright,
My companion, my friend in arms,
Is a groaning tube light,
Silently twined into the night,
Where the smell of books devours me now.
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