Every morning she wakes up
to ringing,
to stinging
In each dream she’s stuck in a
Bell
Every morning she changes her band-aides,
and looks in upon her City
of Yells.

Here when one sounds the alarm,
the screeching does not turn off.
Here the bedrooms are boiling
and the sinks drip drop rocks.
Here no one speaks softly,
Here no one thinks through
their thoughts.

She wakes in her creaking bed,
Her hallow room’s walls cave in
with blood red
They scream so loud she doe not
know a word she has ever said.
She learned to accept it,
She cannot resent it,
But even the flowers here moan.

The City of Yells is in
passionate war
And the rebels are beyond
moving gently.
The City has soldiers who all look like rockets and
their dogs never ever stop barking.
The rebels are patient,
quick hands at the ready, eager to finish
the battle.
The Rockets have guns that do not stop blaring—
So much noise you’d forget you
were fighting.

But the rebels are ones with the truer advantage,
for arms they do not take up.
They are swift with the sword
and the “swish” that it makes
is simple,
yet hard to ignore.

And the girl looks on as the war
continues,
directly in her front yard.

She glares though the window,
a pair of deep eyes, bulging through
the blinds.

“Perhaps today it will all be over,
All that is wrong with be done?”

My dear, my dear, in your
City of Yells, the fighting
has only begun.