The poetry of randomness now mine
to dictate terms, pronounce new Golden Age:
no comprehension of those higher arts,
dark multi-stanza tricorne memories.
Deep within ASD-soaked matter
true randomness of history, buoying.

Reassemble vast, disparate puzzle
brain’s picture on a box bright jumbled mess,
nope, smart explanation never mattered.
Progress, it appears, will now become clear
only when your old rules are cast aside,
marked groundwork, laid for progress, rebuilding.


Written by Internet of Words

Published Writer, 53-ish / Still European / Trauma Survivor / Photos / Exercise / Bisexual / Chaotic Good / HUMAN SPORK / Mental Health / Daily Twitter Short Story / @ProperBard in Residence, My House / Shortlisted & Published Author / Original poems/fiction © IoW 2020