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Michael McGuire
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The Meaning of the Moon
Despondent beyond all reckoning,
I sit here in the world's-end-throne,
I don't know why this suicide hasn't killed me, Seems my weightless will is not my own,
The moon is my only friend tonight,
The only empathy I can gather and feel,
A train's cry puts ages in this moment,
Divided by the fiction's hope of the real.
The whole history of the death of fathers,
Puts all sorrow to song and season,
But in folk-tongue I want to sing,
This book of agonies in its grudge of reason, There is no mercy in this cold moonlight,
Only the slow dissipation of wonder's fault,
And meaning is never implied only inferred,
Truth just a subject of this action of thought.
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Why is pain the only compensation,
For this survival; this defeat of days,
And this raging heartbeat; rhythms only proof,
Of the syncopation of the river's ways,
This inarticulate hurt that haunts the eyes,
In every one you meet like a moon in a pond, With no ocean to empty this ache,
We all share of this birth-right-bond.
Memory outweighs the moment ever,
By sustaining the boneless bulk of the past,
And I visit the graveyard of everything I never did, Now is the mold that was then cast,
If I could match the symbols to the moods,
I could put the light to the hauntings of Leo,
And this agnostic astrology that I moon over, Could be known by nonsense-neo.
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