The cue ball’s measured tap now makes its move.
Yet man predicts but seconds in its fate.
Like life, quicksilver hearts are not defined.
Tomorrow’s rain, a non-conclusive clime.
If Chaos rules our days , accept his ways
as juggled plates, airborne with jostling hands.
Accepting Now is where we are sublime.
If Science can predict but seconds, four,
then why should we pretend to conquer more?
(for Chimera 66, #10. Grammar Ghoul Press. Use the word, ‘Quicksilver’ in exactly 66 word piece.)