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.
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