Church bells tolling like risen gongs from ancient catacombs
The bells latched onto the conscious like anchors in shifty sand
Pulled me in between a stage of a ghost-like pantomime
Funny, funny fellows, followers of fools
It rhymed like pretentious poetry over my head
I'd wonder: those tails that wag the rope to beat
Do they move with the words of one or the smell of a thousand?
Are the hands that wiped the pews flawless
Bound to the secrets of the stained glass,
The shadows of the curled tongues in white gowns?
Like velveteen doves in rigid frocks?
Temples, do not confuse me
For a gatekeeper who keeps watch and never enters
I have locks to hear and ears to think
Those bells strike in the same places,
Invade everyone's Waterloo like a Napoleon possessed
Chartered vessels to dock in the legs of heaven
(Though horses on crusades know more than we do)
Knees scraped from worship all day long
But the marble stage tinkered on
Can only say so much for the hungry
Who raised their hands and never thought why
Hastened to its stop. I just wanted to get this poem over with but I'm too tired to recheck or redraft. This is bad and that is not an understatement. Getting seriously sloppy with writing. The house is always too noisy, the weather too warm, my head just could not settle the thoughts—I could find a million other reasons why I could not just get down to it. But the noise, my siblings being rowdy every single day is making me upset. Solitude is really the soul of writing. It takes every single distraction and you immerse in your ideas whether you like it or not. (Pls pls I need some peace and quiet. Been so tempted to go to that plateau near the cemetery where it's all calm and the sun looks astonishing when it sets.)
