My theory of chaos

A soul, a horizon all afire,
black orbs in galaxies of fright,
a stripe of vice or idleness,
within a second vanished what has been alight,
transformed to shadows from an own beset.

A butterfly, batting storms of chaos tire,
seemingly obliged to fly, to sit on flowers,
running in oblivion of times eyelid,
while the rain is pouring down his showers :
butterfly hides in the cyclones crib.

Glued hourglass of sense, and so, have no desire,
unwillingly a puppet played by God himself,
a king lost all, all servants dead, no one survived,
live old man's measure, consisting of a half,
not of the whole : inwardly he has been deprived.