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.