Entropy

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Things rarely coincide,

With our colorful graphs,

Hopeful expectations,

measured projections

And detailed guides.

There is truly evil,

And bright spots to counter it,

And most know the typical script,

To this classic conflict,

Up to its denouement.

But change the variables,

To the triumph of chaos

Over order,

And few fear anything more.

Yet in this life,

The single worst bet one can make,

Is that everything will become predictable,

And clinical.

That with time’s inevitable,

Inescapable lapse,

That the house will never one day

collapse.

We won’t relive the past,

Though things can relapse,

Because with the march of time,

We can revisit where we’ve been,

But we cannot become again.

We exit states of high concentration,

To return to areas of low,

Momentum erodes,

Into stillness,

With building pressure,

Comes a sometimes violent

Release.

Order decays

Into disarray,

Unless you’re there to pick up the pieces.

Polarization

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Touts may tempt you,

To don rose-colored glasses,

Shouting:

“We can help you draw,

The finest lines,

With no more glare.

Blot out all aberrations,

Lock them out,

So that the spectrum is laid bare.”

Beware of blinders,

There is no one-size-fits-all approach,

To perception.

Light ricochets,

Unpredictably,

But without the full range,

You cannot expect,

Clear sight.

The Life of a Write-Off

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The ceiling,

Had an impromptu,

Skylight,

And fluffy, pink,

Fiberglass tufts,

Showed through,

Holes in the drywall.

The driveway had huge crevices,

From the refreezing,

Ice-cleavers,

That come and go,

With each Winter.

A flexing frame,

Made vascular,

By tunneling termites,

And shifts,

Caused by cracks,

In the foundation.

The whole thing,

Collapsed eventually,

Without warning,

When no one was looking.

Decomposition,

Can drag on,

For years at a time,

Then destruction,

Finishes,

In an instant.

Ballistics!

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Picking up the pieces,

Of past events,

And reassembling them,

To make sense,

Of the occurrences.

Predictions,

On the trajectory,

Of a rocket,

Aimed at open sky,

Which is harder to hit,

Than you’d expect.

The finely-sharpened, 

Somewhat dark art,

Of getting from the business-end,

To the destination,

And vice versa-

And how best to deliver it.

Chaos does not necessarily travel in straight lines,

But there is some order,

In the ways,

Of disarray.