Been a while since I’ve done a spoken word song like this. Although, I suck at writing poetry.
Tired, Chaos
Tired, Chaos slips his slippers from his feet
And settles in to his cold, hard bed.
Fluffing his pillows and setting his alarm for the
Next Great Millennium.
Looking forward to his night of ordered dreams.
While off in the distance,
Through his stained glass windows,
There sits a figure once there,
Then not,
Echoing in the night’s falling breeze,
Taking care not to step on humanity’s horizon.
But they take great pains not to notice,
And sully the name they place upon it,
Like any good traveler should,
And break it down to the bare essentials,
Like heaven and fire and would.
They, of all things,
Of all creatures and good Samaritans,
They are the craftsmen,
The makers that could,
When time is cursed,
And when time is good,
Wrap themselves in shells and shall it
Always,
Simply,
Be.
They can’t deny the churning tide,
The weeds that do bloom,
The ones that do not,
The seasons that are cold,
And the ones that are hot,
The bricks held together by millions of rocks,
The flesh that’s festered with insects and rot.
But, oh, how they deny,
When one lays eyes upon the skies,
No one listens,
No thing is there,
But scattered spores upon the air.
While off in the distance,
Past thin atmospheres,
Past all the rocks,
And past all the spheres,
Where light seems to travel for years,
And years,
And years,
Lies Awakened Chaos.
