Serotonin is the
Fabric of the soul, wefting
Chemistry and warping

Pleasure like ribs bent by the
Heart pushing for an inch of
Metaphor love won’t yield

Until, like a slight tug at
Frayed hosiery, the whole
Illusion ravels at once.

Heaven demands shocks to
Flutter humanly and sear
Myth through its concrete limbs. But

Moonlight cantilevers
And dopamine firmaments
Don’t make for firm foundations, so

Heaven’s vault betrays its
Vital ichor, springing in
Serendipitous spasms.

Serotonin is the
Fabric of the soul, a form-
Ula far too sincere

Until you taste the flood of
A sweetly drowned moment and
The correlated meaning.

Balancing the future
And the present on my tongue,
I weigh my soul against a chemical