THE LIVE FACTORY
What is a thought but a teardrop of light,
A shifting prism of wavering colors,
Tinkling against the dark, so bright,
Echoing in the night of the mind,
Floating, a lily pad on black waters,
Pearled lotus petals opening elegantly,
Trembling as those stars—the moon’s daughters—
Evoking motions of a similar kind?
Still as the silence of the deepest sea,
Yet murmuring the promise of a goassmer wing,
Begin the whirrings of the live factory
To blink us free of advancing blind.