the truth
You want chaos?
Morbid depictions of truth?
Look around.
It’s everywhere.
There but,
not there—
all at once.
Forming itself
into the gods
we know so well.
War
Pestilence,
and Death.
Lesser gods—
Hate and Fear
are welcomed by
Far
too many people.
But the Mother of all Gods
of which these
Wraiths sprang from—
a poisoned apple
or a box-chest,
Who came sauntering
and looked upon puny
Us
with malicious delight,
Thus birthing from her loins
our Demons.
A simple being
and complicated creature,
Blatantly defacing the strict rules,
The strict roles,
of society.
Whom everyone meets
and tells their story
But whom
No one
Survives.
Life.
How long can you keep her occupied?
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