Last Drop

You can talk politics
until blue in the face,
but are they listening?
The world
slices us like a knife,
bleeding us dry,
and we're holding onto the threads,
trying to live our lives.
But are we living?
We're talking,
but no more words are heard,
buried under the weight
that is crushing us down.
Yet, we try to walk.
We step forward
but are pushed back.
Our hands are dry.
We built this world.
Now, raw hands tear them down,
and the roads of time
have fallen over the bridge.
We're circling the edge,
waiting for the last shoe to drop.
All attention waits for that bell toll.
Where will we be then?
Maybe, next time, they should listen.