broken bell (phoenix)

Safeguarded by a private Hell,
Deep inside the Notre Dame
And high up in the Tower, am I
The Hunchback that you see
But only from the depths of
The Cathedral, and only when
I choose to ring that sacred Bell

The patron men always feel better
Once they’ve thrown a glance
At me; with their capricious pity
They’ll turn their backs on mine,
Squeeze the arm – or worse – of
Their wives and permit some fine
Indulgence in their petty fantasies

The women merely stare or cringe
Once I’ve revealed my hunger;
They wave their wares up in the air,
Barely stilling my despair, as I retreat
And in solitude, proceed to feed
The hound that is my slumber

The tie that binds me to this clock
Is stuck to- is written on my wrist
I’ve tried before to clench my fist
It left my finger slit and bleeding
From that bygone Ring of passion
That was cut solely in her fashion;
The memory only leaves me reeling


Quite suddenly it strikes midnight
Though no bell doest now announce it
Incanting this Darkness’ monstrous
Power, slowly I climb down the tower

Scurry off to the Wishing Well, where
There’s not a soul around; cut off my
Troubled hand with the preachers’ axe
Then it lies still, vexed on the ground

Look back and forth a few more times;
It’s useless, and I know it. It’s been
Years on end already since the Lord
Had once foreseen, indeed forebode it

Pick up the jewelled hand that’s by my
Feet, and in a singular moment, I plunge
It in the water, Well, wishing just for
Her, the rightful witness to my torment

Au revoir, mon amour,
My Death and distant Lover,
This cripple you once cherished
- Beyond your reach he’ll hover

Yet something then compels me to
A final viewing. Cringing, I bow
My head and look over the edge
At the mossy crater down below

On the surface of the water,
My reflection… an illusion…


Thus the Truth has set me free:
For I can see an Angel’s wing
Shimmering, fluttering right
Beside me. My face is white;
My eyes the blue of Heaven;
My heart could not be purer.
And as the scope of the curse
Envelops me, both in and out of
Time, I understand that at its core
Also lies its cure: I was mistaken
All along, I never looked like this;
I was deluded in believing that
Something quintessential was amiss

For now I get
When its is said
“Forgive them,
For they know not”

That I am Man

And I am God


Thus pondering the image
Of my very Soul, I gladly
Lend myself my other hand
And limp back to my gaol

Climb back up the tower
And proclaim it as a Token
Of my Self for all to hear:
Feel free to knock, here,
On my door, anytime you
Please. But don’t bother
Ringing my bell, ‘y all,
For my bell, it is broken.