In a world of sound she sits
Bombarded by machines
That are unceasing, but lets slip
All care, attention, eases her grip
On the merely mechanical,
Gives in to dreams.
Through darkening funnels she must climb
Away from dust and sound
Towards desire, away from pound
And clamour of pistons, it is time
For clouds across those thin membranes:
The screens desire is painted on
Riot of colour, images, refrains
Blossoms behind them and is gone.
These are unsubstantial things,
They close and die at each alarm
Stained with the gunning of machines
Designed for harm.
And waking, she will find that things
At the threshold are wearing thin;
In sleep all grace is filtered out
By dust and drudgery,
Din and doubt.