Disinterest Is Intrinsic

I make love with war;
I call out its name and penetrate it to the core.
Chaos erupts in my proximity, and I admire the minutiae.
The individual specks of dirt dance an abstract parabola
On their journey back to the Earth.
The marks of frantic feet are left like ink on the marred land;
Highlights and shades are painted upon atrophy
By hyperbolic flames borne of despair and burning desire.
I gaze into the flames, mesmerized.
I gaze upon ephemeral forms to be seen only once
Before releasing their energy into the Universe
And rejoining what always was.
The disarray lies itself neatly back into order,
And it all continues on.