Mr. Shields Made Me Write a Poem
by Braeden Fitzgerald
The air is chilled; the lights are bright.
People shift and move all night.
They pierce the dark with their luminescence,
yet slowly move towards evanescence.
People work, but all for naught.
They disregard what they are taught,
to respect and cherish a human’s worth
to care for them more than the Earth.
People care for none but them.
And others they so often condemn.
Men are imperfect and many flawed.
It is the good who need spread abroad.