A poem simply sounds the bell, of that which words could never tell.


The bright, silvery steel of intention,
Ricochets into the machine,
Flipped and bounced,
With alarming bells and violent klaxons,
From cushioned pillars of expectation,
Propelled into traps,
Spring-loaded with doubt,
A short-lived game,
That dies to sarcastic fanfare,
And unforgettable, flashing neon,
Spelling tilt,
And frustration.