Testing Time

It's that time of year again, when September is confused with April, and my poor younger brethren are subjected to the rigours of conventional mass testing.

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A great cave this, four hundred souls
Address a common task,
Bow down towards their common goals,
Wear discipline and honour like a mask.

To circumvent their circumstance,
Bend paper to their wills,
They wrestle mightily, each glance
A hope of meaning to this trial instils.

The lights glare down, seek to expose
A certain fact of skill;
Yet bowed as they, confined in rows
Their shadowed faces hide their secrets still.