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Michael McGuire
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The Whiteness of the Whale
Can one describe light to the study of the blind, To the demented; the work and wonder of the mind,
I stand weary-witness to the broken bones of my kind,
The lost hunter becomes what he may find.
Indefinite source of all shadow's in shape,
The piercing persona of pale wine in the grape,
In the vast and weathered landscape of this structured rape,
Where the agents of fortune keep the point of escape.
The visible elements in service of agenda unknown,
Wind reveals the wake of this motion with a moan, Against the stoic bulk and heavy silence of the stone,
Where the darkness of the deep out shines the whiteness of the bone.
An indiscreet autopsy bleeds no colors divine, Just a wash of lit-gray and rain-rust impossible to define,
And the loaded terminology of the map mirrored line,
And so your fear is coached by this unbearable shine.
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And the self that is known is lost in this sea of ages deep,
The whiteness of the whale the dream of the ocean's sleep,
Validations epitomized in the searching color of the all,
The obnoxious silence that never whispers of the call,
Fathoms-deep and drowning in the wet lips of ocean's kiss,
Revenge and rapture of what it means to be this, In every contrivance of motion and meaning you fondle and fail,
Is the unforgiving emptiness of the whiteness of the whale.
The same intoxicating agency of the moon's stare, Its double entendre points both ways to nowhere, This albino rainbow keeps no promise but the rain,
Left trying to read the fortune from the etching of the stain,
Wonder is a surrogate to the pale and paling fear, And the essence of the wonder has never been as clear,
The morbid endurance of the ego's question and quest,
But the eyes will always stare blind into the whiteness unblessed.
In the whiteness of the whale there is no color, Only a reflection of the light lost to the world.
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