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Michael McGuire
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Born at the End of the World
Chronic desire of dissatisfaction,
This weather acquires a taste for the rain,
I was born at the end of the world,
Where you cannot tell your meaning from your pain.
Symbols that rub my subconscious raw,
But it was never more than it seems to be,
I think-dream the stations of night,
And make believe the molecules of me.
So I turn my hunger from its meal,
And the hunger pangs make their meal of me,
Placated in these blank philosophies,
They don't tell you what you are just what you'll never be.
I am just drowning now in light,
Gather darkness to realign my self and soul,
Take the razor to the throat of the world,
And summon the strength to just let go.
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