Cog

My mind it seems has open doors, 
and policies, and gleaming swords,
devices of Rube Goldberg type, 
where slowly-rolling boulders fight 
by increment, inertial inch, momentum 
built by decade spans until they meet 
to clash between on one smooth point 
- becoming rough, by impact chance. 

I let it be. These things will set 
eventually in rounded circled 
rolling paths, the dust between 
has trickled fast: and in the patterns 
that emerge? I scry the shape 
of thought's white birds 
who spread in wings 
and poke by beaks

I get the point. In me, 
I think.