The Freedom of Thought

​The freedom of thought,
I mean, when it is real,
Is the light shining through
An old movie reel,

In other words, the light
Of the world, bright as a cymbal,
Divided from darkness,
More real than a symbol,

Of the destruction of thought,
An eternal night, a land-mined
Field, a roaming of beasts
Across a ruined mind,

The light of the world
Is the promise of morning,
Its appearance almost one
With the babble of mourning,

One reflects light
Of the ever-refracting more,
One sinks into the deceptive
Quagmire of the moor.