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.
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