Orthogonal Chance

When your pale skin touches a fervent glance,
When gardens grow in my pupils like string,
I will recall an orthogonal chance,
The one where the ego tasted death’s sting.

Rotten flesh filled the deep sleeping bedroom,
I danced in hell’s gallows as the smoke rose,
Omens rang out like a Locrian doom;
Like a megaphone made of syrinx’s woes.

Though I still dream of those sassafras sighs;
Though the asylum of musty breath remains;
Though I am undone by what it denies;
Though you can still see the indigo stains:

I must wander like an animal that believes it is normal,
Or a human forced to be painfully formal.