Ring

Ring. Ring. Ring.
The old bell that calls me home.
Ring the bell that cracks the day into pieces.
Ring the hour in which all are cordoned and shepherded,
pushed through doors like hourglass sand, and the withered hand cannot hold.
The children do as children are told,
bend or break,
and break they often do.
As I have daily.
Ring the ears of bad advice,
tinnitus and trite maxims that serve neither hungry nor wretched,
but master is looking good as he rings his dinner bell.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
Call the reaper.
Burn the fields.
Start again.
There is nothing here.
Nothing left.
Rats have eaten everything.
And we are strangers in forgotten places.
How we lost ourselves in self hate.
Pretending to be men,
so we might be worthy to beg for scraps.
And days have become a manic seesaw of here there everywhere,
outrageous joy followed by this hollow of sorrow,
Around. Around. Around again.
Driven into the ground a corkskrew,
and off pops the head of another sibling.
When might I be next.
Will there be singing at my day?
I don't know.
I wish I could say I cared.

-o0o-