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Michael McGuire
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Restless River, Ceaseless Rain
Sculpting the masterpiece; hidden in the rock, River and rain ambassadors of the muse,
This tragic beauty staggers unfinished,
In its native dress of infinite blues,
The prodigy of accidental truth,
The anatomy of dreams wasted sleep,
Involuntary motion of the clockless soul,
Given to the bride of the river's keep.
This river plays an alter for the rain,
Prayers for a petty god of moon and tide,
The blood from the throat of the lamb,
Only the will of the sacrifice is defied,
So the meaning is the flow and fall,
And the difference between river and rain,
Are the ocean's bitter toxins to thirst,
And the water that escapes down the drain.
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A man can only face down the mystery with the animal's will to survive,
And try to realize some kind common glory in the fact that you're alive,
But oh the rain; the rain; the rain; the rain that drives the river's rage,
The same curses; the same plagues in a different tongue in a different age,
Washing the memory from the bitter-bones of this brooding Earth,
Till every life that was every lived is conjured unto oblivion's rebirth,
And you realize everything at once is the only truth; the fossil in the stone,
Your little life and your little mind the only light in the godless unknown.
So the days add up to a personalized eternity, And we are the end within the ending,
You can look into the eyes of Hells and Heavens, And still never know the direction we're tending, And if this pitiless mechanism can grind mountains to dust,
And leave nothing of a man but ruin and pain,
He must find his comfort in that same device,
For it is also his deliverance this restless river; ceaseless rain.
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