IN THE HOUR OF CHAOS

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A silent breeze before the storm
A gentle hum before all hell’s
Set loose and before everyone
Will face life’s greatest conundrum.

The trees sway to and fro maliciously
Warning the sprightly traveler
Who walks forward obliviously
In the face of the daggers.

He sees around him the jungle wild
The hungry dog and the angry child
The beleaguered mother and her infant cold
The businessman who sold his soul
And the signs of tension
The sparks before the storm
The glints of the daggers in the twilight born
But he skips on capriciously
In the face of daggers.

The hour of chaos is a minute away
And the world seems to stop
Before all hell’s loosed upon
The city, at its peak
But the traveler treks unknowingly
In the face of daggers.

The chaos descends like a storm
Out of us it was born
To us it will return
Infesting itself in our progenies
Mitigation faces a turn
And the traveler runs on horrified
Into the blades and daggers.

Every woman, man and child
Every little dog
Every dew drop on a rose
Every sorry stationary log
The reds, the whites, the blues
The ones for all three too
The fundamentalists and the capitalists
The earth and the skies
Is nullified or amplified
Depending on its side
Through the aftermath of the storm
Our traveler walks no more.


Retiring to their dusty bunkers
The smart ones sat through it all
And after the chaos had passed they waited
For the state to fall.

And now, through the aftermath, our traveler walks no more.





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