The Chaos Drum
Let the chaos run.
Not as noise, but as prophecy—
a living thing that seeps through cracked stone
and coils in the marrow of the forgotten.
Let all the shenanigans wake the nation—
not laughter, no…
but the kind of madness that smiles too wide,
that dances in graveyards beneath a moon that never blinks.
For this is no harmless mischief.
This is the unraveling.
The flicker before the flame devours the page.
Come… hear it.
The chaos drum.
It does not beat in rhythm—
it summons.
A low, echoing thrum beneath the earth,
like a heart too old to die,
like footsteps of something vast
stirring just beyond the veil.
Those who hear it do not remain unchanged.
Their shadows stretch longer.
Their thoughts grow teeth.
Their names begin to sound unfamiliar on their own tongues.
And still it calls.
Let the chaos run—
through ink and bone, through dream and ruin.
Let it climb the spires and seep into the streets,
until even the silent are screaming without sound.
The nation will wake—
but not as it was.
No…
It will rise hollow-eyed and hungry,
drawn to the drum.
Always the drum.
Leave a Reply