At the Edge of Chaos

On one edge of chaos lies rigidity.
The monolith.
Stones piled in a ditch.
They stare with a look that says, ‘We’ll be here yet.’
The stiff upper lip, the never-beaten brow.
No velocity.

On the other edge of chaos lives spontaneous order.
Crazily comforting, it quivers in its corner,
a stretched spring.
It’s ready at the bat of a wing
the fit of a switch
to become a number of things.
Curiously, its malleability
belies its steady state.
It goes venturing
stays out late
but it’s a ball on a string.

Glass eyes.
Wild revolution now.
The tinny twinkling of eternity.