by (c) Nin Harris. All Rights Reserved.
Eked from dust-ridden murk;
Nurturing myriad iniquities like soapscum sensations
Oozing into ectoplasmic solace of dawntide reveries;
We poise on the brink of a chasm
On the brink of the end of time;
the end of us as we know it
With exhalations of too little too lates
ricocheting like the remark of dropped thimbles
failed in their onslaught against waterlines
fractured by oceans diluted with islands of ice rendered like
Fat in a frying pan and yet hope slithers in between the valleys
Of our uncertainties; saying there is yet time, there is yet time
Deeper within lies an unassailable, chthonic conviction —
The earth will eat us whole for what has
Been done to her time immemorial; I can scarcely
Blame a lady wronged for requiring her pounds of flesh.
And yet these trees, these groves are still cut down to make way
For another mall that will have empty shoplots,
These carparks with no cars, nor big yellow taxis
these discontinued voids to be filled by
foodtrucks; graffiti artists; lines of gentrified resistance
fueled by lattes and rhyme, shaking manifold fists
against that final disillusionment; this slim line
of defense against dreams of profit-mongers
Who gape with gormless gaucherie into the chasm
Of a wasteland created by the bottom line.
(revised: 3 January 2019)
New Year’s Eve, 2019.