Solitude is not often desired,
But I call her my mistress;
At my Broca’s boughs she’s wired —
she’s both: muse and fortress.
She promenades the halls
Made out of her own tissues,
She goes up a deoxyribonucleic staircase,
A procession of never-ending bonds.
Can’t wait for the caress of her lips
Against the contours of my outer ear.
Can’t wait for apocryphal words,
That can make you feel like god and child.