Underground, there turns an Engine
its spokes gird Gatromβs dark dimension.
Six thousand clocks regulate
and organize refined mutates
that supervise an endless march
of gynanders: the Nen.
The Nen - whose heads are long
and whose minds are deep,
and sensitive, whose wet eyes
blink fearfully; they tread
with mounting terror through
the Dreadful Arch -
are born in tubes beneath tons of rock,
are synthesized from perfect stock
to serve, in three primary ways,
their mad creatorβs lunatic and loud
designs, which, though atrocious,
stabilize the Engineβs rays.
An algorithm reveals the pattern:
a planetary knot of never-sleep,
Deokat, and its vast machine,
generating that with which itβs fed
through artificial time, eternally
increases its complexities.
Clutching tightly to each other
the huddled Nen press on and shrink
from tormenting whips
that flay the unloved and the strays.
The others look away and shudder,
hurrying on, but not too fast.
Though imaginative, the Nen know only
well enough to hope their march
reveals at last some explanation -
an answer to their depth of soul
with which they all were born endowed -
to justify their agonies.
Deep within each Nen heart
swells a growing certainty
that bursts into a quiet grief
as, tearfully, her trek bends left
until the Engine looms, shitting out,
and then devouring, all her loves again.
Her thoughts canβt hide, from here, she stumbles;
her arms and hands clasp to her dears,
and they, in turn, cling tight to hopes
draping deadly sanity with Heavens,
but none in this lamenting throng
can stand to stop and think for long.
They hold each other and march on.
Now the whips no longer sting.
All those who walk still realize
that every Nen whoβs made soon dies,
that all Nen throats are moved to sing
mere coal for pointless fire.
dailybridgerton
theartofmadeline
amandla
baratheonpilled
