They walk,
Contented,
Lines of life sown through walls of stone,
Singing,
Meaningless songs of that persistent monotone,
Standing,
Furthest away from the dancing flames,
For fear of what they cannot understand,
Cannot shape.

They believe,
In order, and the laws that chain them down,
Willing prisoners,
Without complaint, without a sound,
Of discontent,
Towards the torturous wheel the are enslaved to,
They are happy,
Happy with the masks they wear,
Happy that they'll never know,
Never care.

Perfection lies in the fire,
In the chaotic embers,
Never coiling, never seducing,
The same way twice,
It stays not still, it flows,
To feed, to consume, to grows,
To smother the unwavering,
To breathe life anew,
Perfection lies in chaos.