While the men of pride woo Fortune with their swords,
And the men of coin throw silver at her feet,
I kiss those feet, washed in blood and silver, like a slave:
And learn the song of Chaos that heralds her judgment seat.
Shackling them to her wheel, she dizzies them and then breaks them:
While I, without glory, caressing Fortune’s arbitrary teat,
Am myself exalted by that torturing wheel until queenly Fortune herself
And slavering Chaos kneel in slavish tatters at my feet.
When with masques and revels I humbly woo her as a queen
And then with lies and intrigues, poison her till she cannot stand,
When, upon my desiring lap, I fix sweet, impaled Fortune,
And black-tongued Chaos tamely laves my hand:
When her wheel lies motionless, broken upon my iron will,
Then shall my own passion in glutted peace lie still?
This poem was written in response to the Daily Post’s prompt: Chaos
If I’m being perfectly honest, this was inspired as well by the Machiavellian character of Petyr Baelish in Game of Thrones. Who better to inspire a poem exalting Chaos in the interests of personal ambition?