Bury the Maker
Pledge in art that we carry through our fingertips, pledge in the calluses that recognize our letters, and pledge in the dark swollen eyes that took us into nights where we drifted into chambers of our own little creations. One would be in access to many of these blessings, and another one would be staking the risks in reaching to even grasp upon one blessing. When you stay in a play where your life is due, the times where you carry the pledges only feel like a distant blue. Once was a belonging you thought caught in the future, only to be wired to stop in the present of who was once a dreamer.
Pledge to days where time didn’t take away the magic. Pray for days where one could even express an ounce of magic. If Bell was a person who wished to strive for more creations, the ringer could only wish to live in the lives of every bell. Ringer says that it is out of reach, my pockets are dry with no way to seek, the bell is too far from the grounded earth, where all the ringers stay calling for your share of power and girth. Where ringer stays below in the weak, and bell forgets when she reaches the peak.
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Was ever sprinkles of spells and paint the one true sentiment of what people escaped to? Or was there no possibility of sentiment escaping to in the first place? Many say it's the way outside, but many can’t even find the key to open the door. The amass could only wish an exit existed while others blabber so easily of the life outside that mist. A wall is struck between the blues and dues, our wishes and dreams vs. the easiest things they thought we could do. Our work is tenfolds than the rest of the crew, and yet we are yet to be seen and are only forgotten by the few.
Lucky of the few? They have buried the Maker, a potential, in the dust. Where rocks and weeds collected through the rust. The Maker is the worst of all of them, though. It does not even remember what it is after all. While the bells ring their loud, loud mirth, of joy and expression of freedom and worth. The Maker can only watch from a streamline of ifs, where only dust of wishes and longing sticks.
Bury the Maker, long forgotten. A distant sound? A whisper from his coffin. Dead is the show one could have done. Over is the play we all wished one should’ve begun. The texts are lost in cracked glass and old books. No more of the wishful looks. He was good, one man could only say. All is lost in the sea of disarray.
As the Maker lays down in a dusty wooden room. A teller of the times ancient to the news. If Maker made it with strife and labor. He would have reached Miss Bell where the peak is harbored. By many but no, because Maker in here is a wise old man who survived the fear, showed everyone the magic from his makings, the paintings, the art, the sketches and coloring. A fresco of colors, the light of the streams! But only if Maker saw what he could have been.
