The Poetry of Mark Daniel Milbocker 
Arcanity

The son of now,
some billionated fraction,
once a fading particle
now more a murmuration of
memories of fire and ashes,
stooped and staring
clumsily grasping at
philosophic razors,
bleeds the same as
first mother when her
gash gushed forth
the first robots
to fortune's arcane
geometry of hope.
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