It rolls past a snake in the night,
Steel wheels rattling along the rails,
Face bathed in flashing lights,
Looking down lit from above,
I see my own eyes reflect among them,
Travelling silent together through the dark,

Count the carriages then it's gone,
I'm left alone as it thunders on

Welcomed into the deadzone of meaningless averted eyes,
Nothing but uncomfortable seats,
And an ease to breathe in all the toxins you want,

Tongue-tied for interests,
Nothing to share,
So we stare at our hands,
And I notice something in mine,

They're growing and,
The honesty of work is dying them grey,
And where once I thought of them wasting away,

I find pride in my replacability,
The hollowness of my labour,
I'm glad for these things because they highlight the pen,
Which ink stained my hands as I wrestled with it,
In an eternal battle I have with myself,

So i'm glad to be fleeting,
A relief to myself

**** the silent moon,
and all it's stark white beauty,
and the thundering ghost train's,
crescendoing symphonies,

I am ever so angry,
At the effortless night,
for try, try,
and try as I might,
I will never be quite as still as the moon,
all of my lines well end far too soon,
and all will be lost to the effortless night

I am the space man,
Who jumped from his spaceship,
To give himself some space,
Because he want quite in shape,
To return to an earth,

Who will not remember his name,
For he did nothing new,
No tremendous feats,
He gave only retreats

Wrinkles spread,
On the mona lisa's face,
St. Pauls will crack,
And fade away,

Smoke will rise,
As towers fall,
And what we learn,
As we watch it all,

Is that even an angel's grace,
Is not safe in such a place.