The drone ejects its deadly shell
and now the bomb must drop.
The watchman wildly tolls the bell
to sound a warning peal.
No magic wand or shield can stop
what pain our town will feel.
And yet, the pain the town might feel,
transcends the mighty shell.
Time itself is loathe to stop
momentum of the drop.
Nor does it seek to speed the peal
and tolling of the bell.
When silence finally claims the bell
our town begins to feel
a horror from the useless peal,
ignored, of course, by shell.
That fateful path, that awful drop,
a force so hard to stop.
Immovable, the town pleads, “Stop!”
Its mouth, the quaking bell.
And still the missile makes its drop.
Its goal: to make us feel
the power of a man-made shell–
a shockwave like a peal.
And, lo, the soundwaves from the peal
compels the bomb to stop.
We watch, with glee, the mighty shell
relent before our bell.
The town is saved! The fear we feel
dissolves, just like the drop.
Despite the missile's deadly drop,
it hears the watchman's peal.
If bombs react to how we feel
they surely all would stop.
Our magic shield must be the bell,
appealing to the shell.
I know we feel, when bombs do drop.
So must each shell, upon the peal
be forced to stop, respect the bell.
This sestina was inspired by Bob Jasper's The Race.