Synesthesia

''There is a charm about the forbidden that makes it unspeakably desirable.''

Mark Twain


An inner indecisiveness, or conflict of duality,

like the off-coloured joke you'd mutter

and the crimson-ridden smile I'd shoot back, cautiously.

Deflective to your satire but responsive to your tempt,

concealing an indwelling ardour for you.

A cosmic battle, like the War in Heaven,

-but I, Belial, live not the nymphet truth.

A corruption of the rose, though primed with thorns, a willing decent.

Once only torn by morality and damned repent.

Arrive a submission of withering, of regression in black.

Like the cigarette to your lips,

the auburn excitement and the internal rack.

Of your organs, dance-macabre, where i move to the beat of their ruin,

that you ambitiously defend, conceal, with the external bruin.

Of your blood, through your veins but a reliance in these lands and

Of your soul, switching realms through your smile and your hand.

One to my sin, like the serpent, the phallus and innocence undone.

The other to sanguine, a worthwhile sweet shame to be sung.

But now the distinction is less clear.

As your mouth,

a coiled snake

whispers poison to mine ear.

And your hands take

not my neck,

but my fingers

my heart

and with it,

all due fear.

Can you feel the sounds of torment now,

If you listen to the colours of repress?

This paradise of Hell fire- not lost

but paradise still, I confess.

 

Synesthesia

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