The printer

The pen is light that scourges for the source.
The words are mimicries of previous days.
The light is fire that licks the coldest soul.
The numbers persist, in their brief delay.
The wait is worthwhile, for a change of view.
The eyes seek and find—where the mind cannot.
The thoughts remain earnest, albeit eschewed—
A stranger to the true province of art.
A map is revealed with a thousand routes
To the mirror of happy affection,
But the glass is as good a choice without
The image removed from my reflection.
It is in this sense, I search, I spectate:
A copy of love—lust can imitate.

Dale Chou
2012-07-03