Aion’s Serpent Hides Its Tail

Well, that’s a fancy title
For a simple suggestion—
We live in a gambling den

Where nobody is certain
How the exit works or how
Anyone ever got in.

Like any good casino,
This den shows spins and hides them.
We have to search out the clocks—

Although this den entraps us,
Its internal exchanges
Seem eternally open.

A real gambling den’s just one
Of Aion’s glittering scales—
A horse race, a stock market—

Attached to little owners,
Attentive, stretchy tendons
For monetary tensions,

And we know their intentions.
But this monstrous metaphor
Has no known proprietor

Nor any known agenda.
Is its end venomous? Time
Keeps its intentions hidden.