chaos calls itself wisdom when no one listens a tower of books burns
halls of fractured mirrors each reflection more treacherous than the last
in a grim attempt at chaos warcries echo across wildflower fields
where the storm slithers overhead the divine hand of the gardener at work
colours defy the cosmic spectrum of darkness
shapes never meant for the light petals speak in embers and starfire
on streets paved with tongues you are either shadow or dead
hands become a labyrinth as bones sing in worship of winter’s coming
blood feeds the roots of rebellion and forests bloom with sinewy knives
once a kingdom of twelve suns from each eye the lich king weeps tears of ice and chaos
elancharan gunasekaran 