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