The Rooster Calls
The rooster calls, a brittle cry,
A blade of sound against the sky.
No golden glow, no soft embrace,
Just morning’s hand upon my face.
The world awakes, but not with grace,
The dawn is cold, a silent place.
Footsteps echo down the lane,
Another day, another chain.
The fields don’t sigh, they don’t weep,
The soil lies quiet, dark and deep.
The rooster’s voice, a rasping note,
A splinter caught within my throat.
No promise lingers in the air,
Just smoke that curls without a care.
The sun ascends, but casts no heat,
A clock that ticks but does not beat.
And yet, the rooster sings again,
A herald not of hope, but pain.
His crown a crimson, empty mark,
A flame that flickers in the dark.
So rise and shine, the echo calls,
Another morning grips and falls.
Don’t stay in bed you sleepy head
There’s lots of sleep when you’re dead.
About the Creator
Marie381Uk
I've been writing poetry since the age of fourteen. With pen in hand, I wander through realms unseen. The pen holds power; ink reveals hidden thoughts. A poet may speak truth or weave a tale. You decide. Let pen and ink capture your mind❤️
Keep reading
More stories from Marie381Uk and writers in Poets and other communities.
Comments (3)
What a way to wake up in the morning. There is a rooster here that does start crowing about 6AM but does not stop. Good job.
Great 👌
Nice work. Question what was the trigger for this story? You peaked my interests. :)