the shuffling men huddle
in the lighted room
eyes glue to shoes
the miles a man treads
are the measure of his soul
and these worn feet are
men to move mountains
with bare hands

tinge the conversation
with the propaganda of innocence
priesthood of crafted reality
puts good and true men prostrate to the
graven images of a better world
when all that is accomplished is the slow decay
rotting fruit of our collective wishes
our collective hopes

a man on fire
his hand to the road
that i must travel
like a cool drop of rain in the blast furnace heat
like a woman's smile after years of being alone
like the taste of real hope
after the road has come here
this strange strange place
at the end of the world

one hundred and ten men
in this dark hall
waiting for the storm to let
waiting for the sun
waiting for a better world

one man waits
in the rain
surreal in his mind the day has evaporated
and as the shadows of night crawl into his eye
he dreams aloud that she has come home to him
that things never went astray
that we could be our happy little family again