Impossible Order

Oscillating between desensitization and shock at discovering new lows.

Photo by srinivas bandari on Unsplash

The more things change,
with a Tyrant at the helm
of a throne made of shadows
cast by clouds on a clear day,
the more they become worse.
Doomsayers begrudge the loss
of the perfect yesterday
that never existed. Chaos 
weavers foretell the price
of the golden tomorrow
to be any and every person
looking in from the outside.
The inside hemorrhages more.
The outside has an endless crowd
that stretches farther than a lightyear.
Each day the Tyrant grows lonelier 
but the chopping block has a glut
of all of us. A Tyrant's appetite
for chaos can never be satiated.
It is bottomless. Eternally starving.
You would be better off pleading
towards a tornado's sense of mercy.

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