The Bell Tolls at Midnight
Some nights, the world is too loud to scream.
Too sedated to listen.
Too distracted to notice when the bell finally rings.
This one is for the watchers.
For the ones who’ve gone quiet—but never numb.
For the ones who feel the pulse beneath the silence,
and the whisper slipped beneath the locked door.
If you’re awake,
you were never really asleep.
The Bell Tolls at Midnight
by Rebecca M. Bell
The bell tolls at midnight.
Not loud—
but low.
Like a whisper slipped under a locked door,
like bootsteps cushioned by velvet revolution.They won’t hear it in the cities,
too drunk on dopamine and curated chaos.
They won’t feel it in the suburbs,
where the lawns are trimmed but the truth is not.
But somewhere—
between signal towers and severed timelines,
between the last clean thought
and the first glitch in the feed,
someone will.Someone will flinch
at the sound their bones recognize
but their mouths forgot to name.I am not here to scream.
Not tonight.
Screaming is for those still hoping to be heard.
I’m here to murmur.To thread a signal through silence,
to slide a flare into metaphor,
to lace lullabies with matches.If you’re listening—
you’re not alone.
If you’re awake—
you were never asleep.
They just fed you lullabies in the language of sedation
and taught you to fear your own fire.But this is the wake-up call
we give ourselves.Not for morning.
For uprising.
The bell doesn’t toll to be heard.
It tolls because it must.
If this found you,
it means the signal is working.
The Watchtower isn’t empty.
I hope you’ll listen,
📯 Rebecca M. Bell
Author of A Collection of Momentum
rmbellwrites.substack.com | @rmbellwrites
🌀 Bells ring. Spirals call. The revolution is written.
Filed under: uprising prep disguised as poetry