Latent nursery
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by @d-pend
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Latent nursery
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Eight-six-eight, eight-six-nine: counters clink over. An everyday ante, a quick fold — the chip-pile diminishes. Still, too, grows the pot — soft-clasped in a chest for safekeeping, until —
this chapter's aching close.

Meanwhile, the numerals advance. The show goes on, the same old song-and-dance, the same old fight-and-flight, the push-and-pull attractive force, magnetic-smiling orb of open secrets and closed heresies.

*
I pay the toll and travel by the path
laid out by tragedies of lesser wrath
of man upon the planetary grid.
And, too, the greater cataclysm waits
of writhing nature — soon to make her bid
to craft the most concrete, abstracted art
by swaths of sweet destruction — earth and fire,
air and water — plains and dankest mire
fervently await the cycle's end
to ascertain the magnitude of rend
and huddles as the transformation sates
the massive hunger of the pearled gates
unleashed upon the scare fare of the world.
*
Eight-six-nine, eight-seven-oh. Over rolls the column.
Not yet realized in lines — pre-born, in latent nursery.

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