Sits a boy at the back of the room,
Head down looking gloom,
No one seems to pay any attention though,
Not even his friend in the next row.
He scribbles and draws,
A magic door,
Which opens to a lion's roar,
As soldiers cross the moor,
And eagles soar.
His expression changes,
His heart dances,
As colours add clarity,
to his alternate reality
"Freak, weirdo" mumbles some,
Thinking that he is a bum,
He doesn't pay heed,
For the reality he needs,
Is lying there on the seat.
