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Michael McGuire
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This Weary World
The days run river with time's casual urgency, Prolonging agonies; feeding dreams,
If we could deconstruct the moment to the components of its making,
Time is the predicament we would find ourselves in,
All this losting is exhausting; we suffer each our own indentured Eden,
Doomed and bound to find a healing quality in the very venom,
For if there is to be a Heaven this Earth must be thy vessel,
And it looks long; and long; upon the survey of this despair.
I can't for the life of me,
Look past the misery,
Of this weary world.
Demographic dogma unbinds the spiritual synergy,
Casting our souls to wander the wilderness alone,
Breeding false gods to reckon our own device, And gorge our gut at the expense of our brother's need,
Huddled in a hush of electric-river-gospel,
The binary-blueprint; the ego's architect,
Falling forward of the uncertain gravity of improvised empires,
With the very flight that we seek determined by the scorched earth skies of our wrecked aviation.
I can't for the life of me,
Understand the stupidity,
Of this weary world.
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Deformed hulks of ancient engines litter the newborn works,
The placenta of the receded flood echos birth agonies,
With the glossolalia of infinite-decimal-babel,
Lost civilizations in white noise transistor-transit, Just the background radiation of the frenetic friction of the motion,
Fueled in its own exhaust; a market driven matrix of waste,
Puzzling over the exhumed fossils of ancestral demise,
Making mystic-tellings of fallen fortunes in lieu of the virgin's currency.
I can't for the life of me,
Feel hope in the posterity,
Of this weary world.
This chronic forecast is meaning's barren tongue, Each broadband-docket a custom dialect of nonsense,
Source-signal decoded at the end user's discreet demolition,
This agency of baptism sanctifies the victim's complicity,
So what is born of mother love seeks its death in father lust,
And this withered beauty gilded in the rust of obscene ages,
Finds no savior worthy to the title of its rescue, Just the radio-wave-babel that ends up bickering amongst the stars.
I can't for the death of me,
Explain the immortality,
Of this weary world.
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