The Bells

The carved figure of a man that stands,
Tall enough to shadow his own fate,
Holding the balance, which weighs his pain.
He stands tall, brave as he does,
But his hands shake, and uncertainty looms.

He has seen pain, or so he believes,
For no one cares, he writes with his blood.
I am alone, and I am weak to take this burden,
This burden that life has bestowed on me.
But does he know that he ain't the one burdened.

He looks up to the sky, the dark blanket of gloom,
He looks to earth, the parched source of hope
A painted smile that adorns his face,
A drop of tear that trickles through the paint
He is weak, and is broken by the burden he bears.

He looks at the trees as they swing,
His hope to swing along is crushed by fear.
He watches his hands tighten around the bells,
The little bells that would ring aloud one day,
Ring to the tunes for the devil to dance to his death