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Michael McGuire
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Something About Everything
A slave to the furious wheel of my miscellany of want,
I question the logistics of the limp of my logic, Wonders escape my senses without being milked of their ecstasies,
So lost am I in the folk and familiar of habits in motion.
My agnostic attitudes, The world's prolific platitudes,
So alas something about everything feeds me sorrows,
And blank revelations forecast blank tomorrows.
I flounder and waste time working trifles,
And sulk upon all natures most common themes, But the alphabet can misspell any Omegas to Alphas,
And shape sense into the raw materials of any construct of words.
My agnostic attitudes,
The world's prolific platitudes,
So alas something about everything feeds me sorrows,
And blank revelations forecast blank tomorrows.
Even the bounded world is swallowed in a boundless universe,
As one man is swallowed in the miscellaneous mass of mankind,
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All knowledge on pawn of the soul and sift of study,
And the butt of history's sardonic sense of humor.
My agnostic attitudes,
The world's prolific platitudes,
So alas something about everything feeds me sorrows,
And blank revelations forecast blank tomorrows.
The beauty of all things falls victim to my blinded insight,
Chilled in high-summer torched by winter in perpetuum,
Marked in this myth; the bread of Able is the feast of Cain,
The honey poisoned in the ipso facto sweetness of taste.
My book of agonies,
Edits the world's ecstasies,
So alas something about everything leavens my doubt,
And minutes to memories; days to eternities merely prolong my pout.
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