The sound of pens scribbling like
some serfs with their heads bent low
bowing to their erudite peers, glancing
over white papers like some secret spies.
Here I am with a blank mind
tortured with profound emptiness.
I stare around this hallowed hall
In amazement and can feel its creativity.
The man in black paces up and down
like some prison guard black Tricorne Hat
placed correctly on his head, eyes like hawks
looking at each table, at each serf bent low.
My God what have I let myself in for doing this?
this is worse than hell that's bad enough...
nothing can be heard in this place but each
one is only wanting some recognition in life...
This will come later with the results
Written by B R Walker
Suffolk & Lowestoft
Writer & Poet