In the Quiet of the Classroom
A Secret Yearning
In the back of the class, he sits alone,
His heart aflutter, his thoughts unknown.
For there she stands, a beacon bright,
His teacher, his muse, his guiding light.
Her voice like music, soft and clear,
Captivates his soul, draws him near.
With every word, he hangs on tight,
Spellbound by her presence, day and night.
In the quiet of the classroom's hush,
He dreams of her, his secret crush.
Her smile, her laughter, her gentle grace,
Fill his world, his sacred space.
But alas, he knows it can't be,
For she's the teacher, and he's just he.
Yet still he treasures every glance,
Hoping for a fleeting chance.
To catch her eye, to hear her speak,
Is all he longs for, all he seeks.
For in her presence, he feels alive,
A love so pure, it's hard to hide.
So he'll cherish this silent reverie,
Of a love that's boundless, wild and free.
For even though they're worlds apart,
She'll forever hold his beating heart.
About the Creator
Shayan Asghar
Poet | Lover of Words | Diverse Writer
Captivated by the beauty of expression, I explore diverse topics through poetry and prose. Join me on a journey through the magic of words.
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More stories from Shayan Asghar and writers in Poets and other communities.
Red Shelves
Death is a black hole. Think about it. A black hole is the corpse of a star, something once warm and bright, now come to the end of its life cycle. But some will argue that the cycle of life does not end with death. That death is merely another path we must walk once our bodies expire and our souls ascend. In that moment, when the fuel in the star’s chemical tank hits empty and the shiny matte coat explodes into supernova, the mass left behind – the corpse – becomes a black hole. We understand that, around such a vast cadaver, dimensions work a little differently in death to the way we’re used to in life. For example, light cannot escape the pull of a black hole when it hits the point of no return. That’s where it gets its colour. Space itself is contorted by a black hole. That’s where it gets its funny shape. Even time. Time slows right down the closer you get to it. The closer you get to a black hole. The closer you get to death.
By Matthew Curtis5 days ago in Humans
Comments (1)
Ah, such a sweet poem of a story dent crush. I loved it!😍