The Synaesthetic Surge of Sensation
The optic nerves, like copper wires uncoiled,Are struck by photons, sharp as jagged flint,Until the pristine, vacant mind is broiled,By every chromatic and caustic tint.The scent of ozone, sharp and saccharine,Collides with tactile, rough-hewn tapestries,While auditory ghosts, both gray and green,Echo through the cerebral cavities.Each gustatory spark, a salt-licked flame,Dissolves upon the quivering, new-born tongue,Before the mind can find a fitting name,For songs that ancient atmospheres have sung.An avalanche of input, raw and bright,Obliterates the peace of primal night.
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