The Rooster Calls

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.