the tired sound an echo makes, the fertile stench of dirt,
the mortal peril of the birds, like duelists, who flirt,
describes a landscape cloaked in blood, razed with a mortal fire,
the pinnacle of spiteful bliss, of peace, a likely spire;
to feign to even comprehend or find a deeper cause
is to ignore the driving force, of logic bringing pause:
a core of harsh, uncaring heat sent flying without care
which hails from murky ancient times and will return to there;
the finitude of everything is veiled by how it turns,
the cycles which they emulate, the patterns that they learn,
but throughout all, still, chaos reigns, and will not go away,
despite the fact we think it’s gone, the past is here to stay.