An Ode to Chaos

Chaos, that fickle, uncoordinated, unanticipated, unappreciated concept of life that sheds light on even the most inane and inert of features of the world around us. And yet at the same time, Chaos continues to unfold, un-imagine, and undo everything, whether it be great plans, small ideas, a great building of man, or a small creature's hole in the forest. It strikes, blindly, without prejudice, and without it Humanity itself would not be what it is today. Chaos represents the growth and ability of mankind to learn, adapt, survive, and thrive.

I call this an Ode to Chaos, but really it's more than that, to me it's a jumble of chaotic words thrown at a screen at 2 am when the world is quiet except for the music blaring through your headphones, there's nothing to disturb you, there's nothing to stop you, and further more, there's nothing to do except to think. As Charles' Dickens coined in A Tale of Two Cities, and as I will use for my own illustrative purposes here: "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times."

Read, Enjoy, and remember, the world is a more interesting place thanks to Chaos. - Graue

Like a sycophant, that's the feeling, something that was not meant to exist.

Even in the world he seemed empty,

A gaping, gouging, gauging hole,

Something that gave the world a sight,

Something that gave them a fright.

Like a cackling demon perched upon the mightiest of shoulders, it was always staining each word with it's foul ocher.

His head hung ever lower with every thought,

The silk noose about his neck pulling taut,

A man no more, a man is such a dull bore,

He needed a new sight to see a new sandy shore,

When the world is black and meaningless, what constitutes conviction to it's inhabitants.

A soft speck of weakness drips upon his forehead,

urging his neck to crane and raise his eyelids of lead,

Would it be that he was to be delivered or would he be dead,

Cringing forever as the second drop hit and he cruelly fed.

A million voices speak, a million more scream, a million more whisper, a million more sing, yet none are really heard.

Adulation, degradation, conflagration, initiation, subjugation

Words abound to give meaning to that which has no dictation,

Elation abounds but none to grace my lips as I catch the rain,

A tender hand on mine calms the storm, ends the old pain,

Insatiable appetite for the sated, the peaceful striking at the peace keepers, illumination for the blind, and all of this for no one that wants it.

Murder in the Woods

Well, this week and last week have been interesting so far, but alas, nothing that would amaze or astound, or even provoke certain thoughts or emotions, which of course leaves me to simply give a poem of some length and not much creativity. Enjoy!

In humblest light did that raven call,

As if to speak of the dangerous fall,

He said it hurt those that felt it not,

There was none to see who was caught,

The Bear had more to say on the matter,

He had smelled that it was the hatter,

Who did show him the clue to who had done,

The terrible deed done against the seeing one,

And yet the lame duck was the rescuer,

For he could climb the trees without skewer,

But what was an oddity to the fox and cow,

Was not why it was done, but how,

Squirrel said he hear the criminal in the breeze,

Despite being born without ears or tease,

Rabbit caught the culprit but stuttered him far away,

Boar was there to watch it all, but he is the one who in blood lay,

Turtle had given chase to the fiend but all was lost,

For here today hawk was forced to pay the cost,

And in that softest of whispers from horse did lie,

As the lark did hear the song and heave a sigh,

All were accounted for except the one who was sought,

For who suspected that the snail had been bought?

Laid to rest that poor beaver was at the babbling brook,

As the quail gathered flowers to mourn those murdered by the crook,

Although the one to escape the dreaded gallows was not of the wood,

But rather he was the flighty young sparrow with only his ebon hood.