I stole from Chaos.

For one brief,
butterfly foot stamp,
I seized the ions from their charge,
used my will to barge on in the place
where madness swirls with glee
and scatters me and me
before the eyes of all the gods that ever lived,
I stole from Chaos.

I realigned our particles to fence a soul,
regressed the pattern,
revealed the golden weight
that alchemists claim goal
from lead,
in pools of water,
sweat, and heat of mystery.
I made what cannot be,
I made a form of you and me.

The Oxford cloth of numbers,
becomes an eastern shroud,
as raindrop patterned elements
fall scattering,
as random prayers not said aloud,
not by you nor me,
but sung by Sirens,
captive in my hand.
I stole the Chaos.

03/17/2007

Posted on 03/18/2007
Copyright © 2025 Timothy Somers