A Frosty Full Moon in a Pink Dawn Sky

Under the Full Moon

The air is cold in the age of old.

We’re no longer brave, in the moonlight wave.

Day has ended, night impended,

And darkest dawn looms for the faun.

We cannot wake with a sudden shake.

Our sacred lore responds no more.

Silence abounds on the frosty ground.

And the final score has left us poor.

A more reasonable paragraph;

This is actually a 2019 post from before the pandemic. The creepy poetry, however, still applies.

I am not, at this writing, feeling very spry anymore. I substituted for an ESL teacher in Irving yesterday. I enjoyed it. But the frosty cold weather took its toll on me, as did the misbehavior of clownish 11th graders. I am left exhausted and thoroughly convinced that huge high school classes averaging thirty kids in them are not something I am well enough to deal with anymore. I probably need to decide against taking any future high school sub jobs. They make me deathly tired and inspire creepy poetry about mortality in me. Anyway, it caused me to do some picture-making, and some silly poetical complaining.