The wizened old teacher has his own ways…
His rasping voice, his gnarled hands…
They are beautiful….
His fiery glance drips with tenderness….
His touch is gentle in its roughness…
I recoil from his anger, to rest on his lap…
He lets me catch my breath
And shakes me up yet again…
There’s more, he whispers…
He makes me taste the poison ivy
Then pours nectar down my throat…
He shoves me into the dark
And leads me into the light….
This wizened old teacher they call life…
He hammers my soul,
Chisels my heart…
I am his sculpture,
He is my nemesis….
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