Some thing a-typical arises foisting tired but boisterous
Caveats, addenda, screaming anomalies and all hell
To pay for lack of any better thing to say; they spell
The hour, they cast the day’s iron, they fire the weeks’ preposterous
Prescient fears, plastic in the force and thrust
Of what appears to move and yet is still. And as the well
Runs dry, the will remains the perfect dungeon. The knell
Of what the bell once toll must exorcise from former trust
To change the oh-so-slightly this or that design
That redefines the times and needs of those whose path is but a day.
The reach they say will last no longer than the torch will bear,
And no! no longer than these golden laurels resist fatigue in metal there
Upon the brow of dynasties nor ancient logs and temple columns petrified
upon a gilded page deny the rites of Cæsar’s pyre to wash his sins away.
…art by Eero Johannes…