Melted in the heat of thought,

Like butter on a grill.

Seems there's no escape

From what's about to quake.

Shaking the timbers

Of the roof of thought.

Collapsing, though still standing,

A skeleton of frame work.

Lost in the creation

That contains the mind.

All is processed like a blender,

Pureed till smooth as silk.

Extracted in words

That it wears.

Seen only to the naked eye,

That gives it shape and form.

Yet it is still only matter

That has no thought of its own.

Nothing can touch it,

Where it has been born.