Eris is the heiress of her own designs;
want and greed are her plight, her cry.
Nyx, fatherless, adrift, she learns cacophony,
by creating strife, she receives the attention she needs.
But what comes of attention to a purpose unsaid?;
what involvement is required, what is asked, where are you led?
What need to fulfill, what hunger to quell, what half of what whole?,
what thirst can be quenched if perpetuation is the only goal?
If the rhythm and the pattern are the only rhyme,
expended energy runs out, in time.
If constant static is the frantic cause,
what can be attained by temporary applause?
It only keeps any answer of what could soothe her at bay
while she feeds on others by the questions she plays.
Like a child, bereft, or a snake that hungers,
the Ouroboros of her charm is what sucks one under.
Named for the dynamic that requires another;
strife against life; useless without each other.
A namesake sought, caught up in wiles and games;
but Harmonia is the only echo by which she can be saved.
But strive she will, even if for naught.
The hollow victory is unseen; only who's caught.
She's the firebrand of dissension, and men pay their due,
one, by praise, but the other, by rue.
So she inherits as she begins,
cycling her means into her ends.
She is Chaos, and, of course, has her rightful place;
but only that awareness avoids you entrapment in her fate.
Graphic: A depiction of Eris, The Goddess of Strife,
as the Apple of Her Own Eye