Cure-All

We seek to embrace the scientists,
embrace the clean stainfighting sweep of the science itself. 
We long for a theory that can become a law
and crush the last theory, the one that has brought us to the Brink.
We want to be in the presence of the Breakthrough Guild.

We want to embrace the quirk-haunted musicians
of the desert ghost towns
who moved out there to keep their ears pure.
We seek to embrace the death-sipping musicians,
the slim-clothed bands of small eyed boys and large eyed girls,
the men and the women of the worn stages.

We need from these professions three things:
technologies strong enough to mystify us as we use them;
a sound track for that using;
answers to all our problems pouring out of their machines and amplifiers.

So arms open, all, as we pry the lab and studio doors open.
Arms up and open as we pour through the doors
to see the shining magicians and wizards,
the hard physicians
and chemists,
whose formulas and songs
will absolve us from how the world is
while we stand by.