Chaos is a sea of uncertainty, because uncertainty is a sea; it is the coming and going from nothingness, towards everything and from everything, towards nothing; it is the inexorable fury of the waves and of some mighty river, without channel or geography, which converges in the dance of a thousand anodyne forces.
Chaos is a labyrinth with no entrance and no exit, or a surplus of exits that lead to a mess; a whirlwind, of vertigo and fall, which strikes, from the top, towards the bottom of a void: a jungle of noises, denigrating harmony, without onlookers. who correct
Because chaos is shouting: fatal murmur of voices, also of psychophonies that, although they are interpretable, will never announce theories; it is an echo, without origin or destination; it is a note that is out of tune, because of the midday sun.
It is a mirror, battered into splinters, that would never be repaired again, because there are pieces of rubble that are missing; chaos is the fine web, without a master or a sailor, that the spider of absurdity weaves and weaves, through corners and manias…
And the poet, faced with chaos, wonders what poetry and what beauty he needs, his poem on the surface of his skin, if the strong wind has violated his pages.
doctorpoet
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