The Bells

Church bells echo in the distance

o’er vacant city streets,

families piled high

for the sewer rats to feast.

The doctors fill their masks

with lavender and rose,

they don their tools and walking sticks

to dance among the crows.

The ashes fill our lungs,

a reminder that we breathe.

Death sets upon us swiftly,

we’ve hardly time to grieve.

The last of us bear witness

through haunting hollow eyes

the book of Revelation,

man’s final bootless cries.

Unable to impede

this ceaseless march of pestilence,

the priests and preachers ponder upon

God Almighty’s negligence.

Sorrow inundates this living hell,

damnation for our sins.

The bells echo and beckon towards

the onset of the end.

The city now stands ever still,

the bells now go unrung.

The sole survivor breathes his last

through froth-corrupted lungs.

We tire of our fruitless struggles,

hearts cease beating in compliance.

Not a soul is left to ring the bells,

the rats now feed in silence.