**Chaos Breeds Its Kin**

The hearts of men, once steady, crumble under the grindstone of despair.  

Fear carves deep trenches, hollowing reason, burying honor,  

until hands once clean turn black with deeds they swore never to touch.  

Desperation is a devil's whisper, soft and relentless,  

demanding action, any action—so long as it stains.  

A mob is no mere gathering—it is a storm,  

a spiral of screams and fists and fury.  

Good intentions are swallowed whole,  

dragged to the gaping maw of its wrathful core.  

Stand apart, and it sees you—  

sees you as a threat, an enemy,  

a traitor to its boiling cause.  

Hesitation is a death knell.  

It brands the doubters,  

devours them,  

or twists them into complicit shades.  

The mob roars louder, its voice a thousand blades,  

cutting through the air,  

cutting through the truth.  

Burn the city! Tear the kingdom asunder!  

It demands blood without trial,  

justice without thought,  

and the weak give in,  

not out of belief,  

but out of the fear of standing alone.  

Yet rage is a fire that consumes itself.  

Its fuel dwindles, its embers falter.  

And when the last ash cools,  

what remains?  

Scattered souls, wailing against the silence,  

shamed by the horrors their hands unleashed.  

They cannot cry innocence,  

cannot plead for mercy.  

The mob's shadow has fled,  

and each stands naked before the reckoning.  

The voices of hundreds scream destruction—  

but the thousands who know better whisper too softly.  

A leader must rise above the cacophony,  

unshaken, unyielding.  

They must shield the fragile truth,  

daring the crowd's fury.  

For to kneel before the loudest cries  

is to let the world drown  

in the madness of men.