Halldering

If I am a stranger to these halls,
how do I know their every curve?
How can they take me as an alien, an unspeakable blight,
yet let me pass by without concern?
O, but the walls I feel as I stride,
though one can not feel when which can not communicate.

My touch is inactive, bleeding tales of inadequacy,
The bricks will receive it, though without consent.
Yet, a stranger I still am, few from countless,
boys and girls, whose touch has been welcomed.
Soft materials compact and harden,
they gobble me up and leave me barren.

The snow is a guise, only coming thrice a season
as the months flurry by, then they melt into years.
The young stay content, my time has gone out sledding,
those seventh grade comforts ever so despondent.
The halls would feel the same, in every which way,
the halls see my pain, and that will never change.

It is apt to start with one, next is two, then to three,
but the almighty constant claims that one is to be.
Traipsing in exhaustion, I hold my cup out for coffee,
the bricks sit and sigh, and give me what they can.
In the halls they shall stay, while I move up,
But a stranger I will remain, with a half empty cup.