Between The Cracks

In systems complex,

A function unaccustomed,

Between the tall spires

Of civilized estates,

Wander weary children

Unburdened by order,

Creeping through the cracks

For scraps of a niche.

Workers and worriers

Consigned to commission

Could scarcely fathom

Such anarchic fashions.

Scouring the cities

For profits and pleasure

In whatever scarce amounts

Their subtleties can acquire.

These unguided forces,

So volatile and so reckless,

Surviving as a single self

Amid so many societal tempests.

Uninhibited by customs

But restrained by necessities,

Hunger, stress, and heartbreak

Without a remedy or a compass.

Unlost without direction

And unashamed without justice,

The wisdom of disorder

In nature’s law is too apparent.

Live on or die,

Obtain or go without,

Learn quickly or be snuffed

Like a candle blown out.

So the builders and planners

Imposing straight lines and roads

Offer little but questions

For these wanderers to pose.

“Who are you helping?

Can disorder be owned?”

Calling from the cracks

And splinters in the road.

“Enforcements must be vain,

For surely you must see

Nothing can be owned

And everything is free!”

 

 

 

 

 

A Hymn For Eris

One fickle second

Of mad fortune’s tastes

To cripple your empire

And spoil your grace.

Such calculated systems

On sadistic order based

So proud and so erect

So ripe to be erased.

You wait, oh so patient

As your power accumulates.

You measure, oh so careful

As your path illuminates.

In one fickle second

Every effort goes to waste.

Every plan and every conquest

Exploding in your face.

All discipline is vain,

All masters are replaced.

A single fickle second

Is all it even takes.

Every certain truth is only ever partly so,

The Golden Apple Goddess smiles, for she knows.

To those who struggle desperately for some sense of control,

Discordia’s afflux, both above and so below.