The Silent Bell

The sun came in, a brazen smear,

across the wall, too bright, too clear.

I stretched, a slow, deep, sleepy sigh,

then saw the clock, the morning high.

Eleven forty-seven, stark and bold,

a story silently unfolded.

My phone, its screen a waiting void,

the little red 'missed calls' employed

like tiny knives. The meeting's gone,

the chance, the hope, the rising dawn

of something, anything. Just sleep.

This heavy, empty, silent keep.