Let's face it, holding it together's hard.
You have to cook the books to make it work.
Swallow a paradox of battling facts,
Mix metaphors, confuse your death with birth.
A woman's belly's built to hold the moon;
Make light from stone. Life's chemicals unwon,
Between the heart and rituals of her womb.
Priestesses born from Psyche's war with form.
A man's the child of two opposing suns.
Two hot infinities that burn as strong,
But can't outscorch the other. From them come
Live shots of flame between the hips and lungs.
From jugular to coccyx's spinal roots,
Two buds of heat make life from lightning's fruit.