The bell still tolls
for fear of silence.
Traditions forged
in time still hold.
Convention reigns
to blunt mad disarray.
All aspic form
against forlorn decay.
The watch is tense
along the walls,
while on a distant hill
all purpose is denied,
and Peter weeps.
Count the hours.
For if the fortress falls,
the void devours.
John Walter Taylor
© All rights reserved
19 October 2026
