The Unwanted Class

The room is bright, the mirrors long and cold,

We stand in rows and do what we are told.

A heavy rhythm drags across the floor,

While eyes keep wandering toward the door.

The voice up front continues, sharp and clear,

Repeating steps we do not care to hear.

It pulls the music till the magic dies,

And turns the movement into tired sighs.

We count the beats and go through every phase,

Trapped in a slow, unending, static haze.

Our feet move forward, keeping up the show,

While watching every clock hand move too slow.