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Michael McGuire
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The Thing in Itself
Learning to know in the history of ignorance,
Where time is just the toy of a child,
We duck the flying bullets and the swaying flags,
With rage in our hearts but it's not like how the wind is wild,
In the shattered bones of dated dogma,
In the hot blood of the modern mind,
It seems funny that we'er still searching for ourselves,
And we end up faulting everything we find.
The apple still falls in the same way from the tree,
We do as we choose and still argue whether we'er free,
The thing of itself is lost in history,
The thing in itself is mystery.
With ironic art the sculptor shapes his face,
And real life is lived by the hand and not the heart,
And the days that mark his pride slip by like humility,
He doesn't know how to find the end because he never knew where to start,
Is the artist guilty or is art innocence,
The answer depends on which question you ask,
The sky is not painted yet we call the color blue,
Is every eye just a mirror is every face just a mask.
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The apple still falls in the same way from the tree,
We do as we choose and still argue whether we'er free,
The thing of itself is lost in history,
The thing in itself is mystery.
When it rains it looks like the sky is melting,
But it is always there and I am always here,
But do I see what I'm looking at or what I'm looking for,
When you're in the dark everything seems clear,
As the wall of ignorance crumbles the wall of knowledge is built,
And the heavens still turn on the same old wheels,
And Sisyphus still rolls the stone,
And they say we'll never really know how he feels.
The apple still falls in the same way from the tree,
We do as we choose and still argue whether we'er free,
The thing of itself is lost in history,
The thing in itself is mystery.
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