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Michael McGuire
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The Four Directions
Somewhere; is the static meaning of the motion, And the widowed wind is the weather's notion, Caught upon the debt of not to be,
False horizons train the eye to see.
Endless avenues of the four directions,
Fate delivered in the trip of these affections, Scatter your being to the plot of being there, Take the static charge from the rumor of the air.
This sorrow is the song of nowhere,
The singer is a moon drunk voice,
This pain's ambition will take you there,
Easy wings of the bird of choice,
Laws of sleep harass the dream,
The moment seeks the morning's motivation,
In hopes to feel the logic's scheme,
So trail and the tread fall to syncopation.
Is where you are an homage to the four directions,
Or just the wasted ways of your regressions.
In a doorway passes eternity's of indecision,
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The hidden heart of night's provision,
Only the bottomless chance of direction to curry meaning,
Driven by the current killer's leaning.
The four directions each contain a fate,
And the fugitive fix of some dreamer's date,
In the abstract motion of habit lies the way,
To the secret seed of the deepest day.
The compass cannot configure how you came to be here,
Not even the motion's map could make this clear, Time is the trek of this destiny's will,
And dreamer's fly falsely but sleeper's lie still.
And the four directions are just the means to no end,
Just a tonic poured on the impotent wind,
Regret is the fifth direction but on no compass found,
In an instant of oblivion you're eternally bound.
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