Member Poem

The Impermanence of Chaos

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I am so happy, safe and content;

a self-made man, I am provident.

Long on my laurels, I’m short in the gains;

where fate shares the fortune, I’ll take all the blame.

Though now I am here, I’ve been somewhere else;

on every occasion, I’m not the same self.

A self-made man, but I follow no plan –

Luck has her hand, in how I now am.

Alone, I’m at home, alone in my skin.

I am myself, in the moment I’m in.

“Who cares?” Says another, whom I shall call ‘Brother.’

This ‘Other,’ another brother to suffer;

another life, tougher, bearing skin thin.

Both of us follow the similar plan:

Where Luck lays its hands, in making of men.

Nothing at all is, appears as it ‘Does.’

One time will do it; it then becomes ‘Was.’

I was so happy and too self content;

and there! it had lasted for several moments.

A self-made man, so provident.

As Luck would just have it: Impermanent!

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