We are chaos in motion, a twist in a massive plot.
Chaos to ourselves, believing we are not.
We invent ourselves as a natural state of being,
a million billion cells, a force beyond our seeing.
Not of ancient God or modern science,
we a but products of the natural appliance.
Where sanity sails a surging tide
through gales of laughter, joy and pride.
Between the cries and tortured screams
our hopes are pined to sunken dreams.
We struggle forth with a raging might
through elements wild and black as night.
Then calmness comes to rest a while
but madness waits with crooked smile.
1983, Gareth Pritchard.
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