Chaos is a friend of mine,
He dresses in suits of shatter glass,
Brings back the terror of time,
And tells stories to his puppets about the past.
His distracting pink eyes,
Leads you into clouds of butterflies,
But even though he is so blind,
He can still see the sea of your hidden lies.
He likes to hold the world in the palm of his hand,
Holding consciousness as his compass.
He likes to crack your soul into different lands,
Leaving your mind ablaze, sunk in an abyss of darkness.
Chaos seems to adore bottomless pits,
Those that hold his endless wit,
His ability to force you with no force at all, just to quit.
But in the end Chaos is not alive,
The reality turns to a fake as you read through pages of lies.
Chaos is a novel of dry rusted cries,
A symbol whose eyes glow like fireflies,
Whose look shimmers like sunlight,
Whose corruption breaks like suicide,
And whose influence brings about mental twilight.
Chaos is a tool, your tool.
Chaos has made us fools, such fools.
Chaos has turned us to ghouls, vicious ghouls.
But think of Chaos like this: A beast you tame to achieve a peaceful bliss.
A Remedy.