Call It Cognitive

In a dark room.
There's a dark box.
Filled with light.
Two big windows.
Fogged up with smoke
From the factory forever churning
Gears interlaced
And wires like spaghetti
Fueled by desire to open the box,
To find the key.
In not so much of an attempt,
Rather untried,
Light shimmers through the windows
Ever so futile.
Very little light makes it through
Cus of the damn smoke
But the key is somewhere
On this scattered floor
Islands floating in space
On so many levels
The key is somewhere
And you must find it.
The factory
Contradicts itself
So shut the damn thing off
And let the smoke clear
So some light may shine through
The dusty windows
And then look around for the key
Under the rays of this truthful light
And you'll find that it isn't quite
As far as you were hoping