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Michael McGuire
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Sciamachy
I am this shadow; I was born of this fight,
But my dark places teach the beauty of light,
The night is overripe and the enemy grows younger,
Hope is a demon sent to nourish my hunger,
Which would I rather suffer surrender or defeat,
I would claim a victory from a dead-heat,
But I'll never be a servant you'll have to make me a slave,
Let this fight take the fighter to the grave.
And is it this,
Oh I can't live with this,
And is this it,
How can I live like this.
Phantom howls make me feel like a desperate dove,
Waiting for that push to become that inevitable shove,
As my memories they mutate to mythologies,
And my defenses feel like apologies,
Till I don't know if I want or wish or believe or think,
I just know my psyche is too psyched to sync,
I'm an animal so I move toward my next meal,
You're a gentle killer but you can still count on the kill.
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And is it this,
Oh I can't live with this,
And is this it,
How can I live like this.
You are the bread between wanting and waiting,
The god of destroying what I am creating,
A abstract victim of the evanescent now,
And I can't tell the why from the how,
As I figure by fury I'm slowly undone by days,
And wearied of the world and its drop dead ways,
But I suppose this emptiness will have to do,
Because if I'm not the revolution than neither or you.
I draw new lines,
As you erase me,
The ghost of my signs,
Will replace me.
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