False Alarms and Empty Drills

The shrill of the alarm, a jolt to the night,

     it pierces the still, reverberates near,

     my heart pounds wildly, unplanned for the fright,

     and I stumble through thoughts tangled up in fear.

As I step into chaos, confusion unfurls,

     but then laughter drifts in, like a whisper of sound,

     I’m not in a blaze, just the usual swirls,

     the drill is a drill, yet my pulse stays unbound.

I wonder how often we live on the edge,

     startled awake by things barely real,

     those false alarms that dangle like a ledge,

     teaching us nothing, yet leaving a seal.