Chaos writes with windy pen
      on dunes of sand and frothy sea,
      cirrus clouds aloft, and then
Erases all before we see
      the transient text that's hid therein.

She makes a breeze beneath our door
      and tricks us with her icy chill,
      freezing feet both rich and poor,
Whispers with a voice quite still,
      while scuttering frost along the floor.

Carefully mounded garden leaves
      spout up in twisting jets of air;
      she throws them up into the eves
And casts them down upon our hair;
      confusion reigns while she deceives.

She moves the air in many ways,
      a gentle touch, a typhoon's blast
      slanting rains from storms just past;
She whimpers, rages, laughs for days,
      the words she babbles forth don't last.

So, though the message can't be read,
      still, it's plainly understood,
      that Chaos birthed our world and said,
"My work is neither bad nor good,
      in fog you stumble, then you're dead."