Passengers on some long lost train
never seems to stop
till we're thrown out at the feet of God
So many miles to go,
before we sleep
And they're still praying that our souls will keep
So darlin' keep on praying here
and I'll just keep on singing
Our voices drowned out by the tracks
They tore our burdens from our backs
We forgot what stars looked like
the sky's too bright with city lights
but we're still here, love, we're still here.
There's more to life than this
but I'm not sure what
So I'll just take the risk
So maybe it's not as it should be
But at least we're here
and at least we're free
I’ve a softer soul than you thought I did
but a heart like melting snow
Remember love, that what you love most
is the first thing that will go.
I can't calm this storm, it rages on
perhaps it always will
I'd tear your sails and split the mast
but with most reluctant hands.
Kisses bruise like other sins
These lips are cut and rough
sirens song to drown my hopes
that I'll ever be enough
Art thou pale for weariness
Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth,
Among the stars that have a different birth,
And ever changing, like a joyless eye
That finds no object worth its constancy?
There was a death in that hour
of so much more than sixty minutes.
The death of an age, a place,
committed to memory and dried flowers
taped in ragged journals.
Bright colours paling
to sickly pastels, hazy stfumato of distance
settling over them.
The heart gasps, the mind struggles.
It is not the hollow aching pain of loss,
but the firm pull of a winding rope
tugging at loose teeth,
drawn and quartered.
The good memories pull hardest, rooted deep.
The quiet ones of late night talks
and the few fleeting moments of complete joy
where the finality of it all was forgotten.
In joy, everything is infinite for a moment.
There is no end, the horizon cannot be seen,
the perpetual sunset of blazing colour lingers
till we are drunk on the last rays of extraordinary light
rarer than pearl.
We hang the enameled names on the wall
next to the bottled laughs
and boxed voices.
Some will fall to dust, somewhere behind the radiator
out of reach.
Our hands streatch out
but our fingers barely brush.
Everything melts into primordial nostalgia,
sprinkles of melancholy,
and splashes of grief,
we are suddenly aware
of how frighteningly fragile, mortal, we have become,
and that this place's time has ended.