Sunday School On Sunday - Poem by Mad Gone
The bell tolls, the striking piercing penetrates through closed windows.
It won’t go away, it is still striking, it is still piercing.
Ringing in my ears for a quarter of an hour.
I read Beckett, thinking ‘the world as a stage’.
Each mans exits and entrances.
In terms of lost of faith and great war poets.
Imagine what they saw that was to make them lose faith,
What would warrant such a transformation?
For surely, he has turned away his eye.
Then the bell it stops abruptly. Dead.
What is the significance of the number punching,
For are we all not Lost?
What would happen if religion were no more?
I see the stares of the devout,
As I go about my expected duty.
Should they feel sorry for me? Or I for them?
The echoes no longer,
Ringing in my ears.
For now I see clear.
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