Harmony starts to assimilate with dissonance
Like my passions and their dissolution
Like your face and my death

But heuristic flies in the face of contradiction.
There is some magic in the tips of your fingers
Like the corpuscles of Descartes
Wielding that potent blend of chaos and order

Eleven years have graced my back
Hands that wove such intimate passions
Which evolve and now present
Children greivously injured by birth
Or otherwise hurt (if you believe in choices)

Because you are my total paradigm
Even though i rarely think about you
To be honest
You are the massage in the walls of random rooms
Trying to ignite good feeling in a shattered mind
You are the smile of a plastered moon.

You are the taste of