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Michael McGuire
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As She Goes
She suffers from her sense of direction,
At the mercy of the weather's affection,
And the days of our un-naming whisper of her timeless libido,
From the delicacy of moon howling grace,
To the swamp of thought behind her face,
And it's god's own porch light that gives her this ghostly albedo.
Vessel of dark symmetries that nobody knows, Spreading light and logos as she goes.
Nocturnal callings brace her to the days,
Baptized in the river of the ways,
Freedom natures only doctrine; mankind a slave to many,
A false Armageddon drives her rumor of cure, Believers are held to task; only confusion is pure, Dreamers are given their leftover sleep lust if any.
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Teller of all secret nations that everybody knows, Spilling rain and ruin as she goes.
Order is truth and she the medium,
The only point in this pointless tedium,
And the chaos of misunderstanding will throw worlds into the deathless night,
Her religion from the book of reason,
Her sense from the logic of season,
From the heat of heavens into your being; from your eyes her grace is a fixture of light.
The soulful shape of the stranger that anybody knows,
Giving naught and notion as she goes.
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