Waiting for the Catalyst

Always on the brink without ever overflowing.
Always waiting for it.

But the catalyst is late and we stagnate
in the present and sometimes the past.

Eating Finger-nails for lunch
and toe-nails for dinner
in anticipation of a meteor
or an epidemic
or an opportunity.

Always nothing.
And back to my cob-web bed under a blanket of dust
in a bunker
I built
from a deck of playing cards.

Back to the static and the arbitrary numbers.
Back to a broken microscope
to follow fractals dance down the rabbit-hole.