Drums

I feel like everybody’s hearing a call to war that I’m not hearing.

Like there’s these drums a rum-tum-tumming

And these symbols clash-a-clash-clashing

And nobody’s listening.

Nobody seems to hear the poor and the needy.

No one seems to hear their cries.

And it’s not like they’re asking for too much.

But nobody’s listening.

And how could they?

The drums they seem to hear, beat too loudly.

The cymbals? They resound daily and nightly,

Often hourly and with the face of a friend, or a trusted adviser.

But beneath that face is a green cog who spits the poison so easily imbibed and not so easily pushed away.

The call to war is loud

So loud, children hear it and take up arms.

Friends hate friends

Men hate women,

Women hate men,

They hate We.

The call to war is loud.

I’m part of the problem.

I see the ache but don’t respond.

I write down words and occasionally I might spit a clever line or two,

But mostly they’re just feelin’s

Feelin’s of rage and justice and “Where’s the love, the plan, the hope in all of this?”

Pain for those who are suffering and Pain for my own lack of motivation to ease the suffering.

I’m part of the problem.

But I think I read it somewhere that someday the King-that-went-away is gonna come back.

And when he does, everybody, regardless of paygrade or what kind of interesting socks you wear will go to see him at his place.

They’ll stand and then they’ll kneel, and he’ll have words to say.

There’ll be some who say they did some stuff and the King will say “It wasn’t enough. I don’t know who you are, go stand over there.” And they’ll walk away weeping.

There’ll be some who hear, “Good job! Come on in! Got food ready for you!”

And those’ll be the people who stopped listening to the drums.

Yeah. I think I read it somewhere that someday the King-that-went-away is gonna come back.

We’ll see how loud those drums beat then.

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