Wax Machines

When I’m older certain questions won’t be answered,
Like why the rain always comes when we mourn,
Or why the hero always falls so short.
As the air brims with moisture to give,
Many tragedies achieve full-stop in the sun.
Spectators for a moment are mesmerized,
By the waves of deceit in the sea.
How they long for a prize of sweet grandeur,
But only granted a sorrowful glimpse at the end.
A mossy, musky scent that rises from beneath the feet,
Of our hero, and without the transportation,
All of the motivation lies to waste beside him.
The mapmakers and guides lead him to nowhere.
An end that all could predict but not accept,
Because the force behind his actions were not as pure,
As we pretend.
Though if he finds his voice,
To summarize the speeches of nature,
May he be one with the Gods.
There’s a storm heard to be so strong that it pushes its will,
On all who dare oppose it.
As weathermen, we remember the rules of nature.
To manipulate the signs into our sermon,
Together as a wax machine we wait.
The answers elude us – they peer through the shadows.
A calm tension, our hero has kept his word.
But words are just the mysterious questions,
Or the fifth-dimensional answers,
That attempt to conceal our imperfections.
The unanswered request for a more just end,
Evades our hero in our tragic perception,
And now we are one.