In The Library

You put your head down over your folded arms in the cold hard surface of the wooden table, 
A look of distress and discomfort looms over your face and on your forehead a deep frown is cast,
It is unrestful sleep – I can see worries and troubles hanging over your soul like a burden of the past, 
Yet in my role as a stranger there is nothing I can do but look longingly at you feeling so incapable. 

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