In these halls which have wept,

burdened with the weight of knowledge,

she sits tasked with anxiety. An affliction,

to succeed with dignity.

I’ve seen her distraction, her muse,

a tall lad, with a gaggle of fans,

found at a pub. A picturesque blonde,

who calls him her beau,

wastes her youth alongside this bloke.

For if beauty were more than skin deep,

their love would alter the volumes,

of these columns, that fortify these halls.

She stacks a knoll of knowledge,

at her fingertips,

to obscure the view of her infection.