If order be the cause of unhappiness
of nothing happening except routine
hunger for the body, inanity:
give me chaos sublime
to breathe poison, sleep on worries
eat leftovers of your creative tools.
What life is this? This base
childish chase of beggary
of health wealth sex.
Give me speeches of peace for war
more roads of light to walk,
and run to spread the
fragrance
from earth to heaven to
charm god from his hectic boredom.
Order I hate for its dead calm
disorder I hate for its noise
of individual
aspirations to
outbid all needs and deeds.
Let me sit on lonely shores,
counting shells recounting
petty foams taking away sand
from my feet and melting into
the dark sea in silent pride.
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