the train goes by

the numbers change but the message does not
the names are different but the end's the same
we turn to the latest iteration of the game
and find that there's still something we've forgot
there's no reason to go on but to avoid the blot
on each escutcheon for failing would be shame
so we march on though every foot be lame
to halt or waver would be the first mark of rot
the stars that fade in early morning are signs
of faintest hopes held alive in deepest dream
the bus that's late delays but does not halt
the journey we've been given the plain lines
and know that what's there is no moonbeam
still the sea is made of tears we taste the salt

Desacralisation

If there's a god or spirit in each tree
and life's a long sacramental procession,
there's never need for action or progression
for we're surrounded by things we cannot see;
yet when we're in our own house's lee
the wind that's random shows us no succession,
instead there's progress and there's retrogression
and every stream finds no rest in the sea.
We live in time, with knowledge that it ends
for each of us, that we'll be no more there
than all time past. So we give our hopes a form
that comforts us, and so each mind pretends
that flesh turns to spirit in some upper air.

to be loved alone

the desire that hides at the centre of each heart
for all to love us and most to feel despair
at being unknown unmet and for the fair
light of each day to be a sign of individual art
what happens when we accept the given part
is not a spread of sparkles through the air
nor yet the fox running to hide in his lair
for fear that we will launch the fatal dart
instead there's the unassailable hard fact
that though we're each alone we're in a crowd
and every face is ours with some distort
to live each day requires some form of tact
steps that are quiet a voice that isn't loud
and recognition that this is all in sport

advancing on steady legs

we walk together with the flute and pin
no bones about it that is just the way
while rod and arm provide us means to win

on all fours with the law's the way to spin
just how we got here on this sunny day
we walk together with the flute and pin

with two in tandem we know to begin
the masses move together in array
while rod and arm provide us means to win

the music has its source somewhere within
the heart that leaps at sunset in the bay
we walk together with the flute and pin

the song's wind-blown there is no violin
can carry this tune melancholy and gay
while rod and arm provide us means to win

we beat the rhythm out on willing skin
and as we go still do we yearn to stay
we walk together with the flute and pin
while rod and arm provide us means to win

the object of research

i seek in words the weavings of the state
to say what is and what is not in clear
terms to define and show that what is dear
is what we made so there's not need for fate
to justify what happens at each date
the signals travel quickly through the air
yet all that happens turns out at last unfair
the facts and values slowly aggregate
we draw the maps and measure out the space
the roads are clearly marked so are the hills
the rivers show up in the brightest blue
and yet we find that now we cannot trace
how much it cost and who paid all the bills
but now a greater reckoning comes due