In me the universe is having an unholy seizure
There on the precipice resides my steeped cranium
Swimming with chemicals, turning the crown-harp over with destiny's hands

A cynical chord is struck, dissonant and sublime
A spine, by bolts of lightning, is realigned

The geometry of demons crosses my center until I reach a state of balance
To call on the help of angels
Who are only seen by the seeking mind

But turned over and over a black tunnel befriends me
And betrays me to the rest--
Which I've said I can rebel against.