All those who’re lost aren’t there from wandering;
some are asleep, and dream of squandering
times and places they’ve not been,
describing wonders they’ve not seen.
All those who’re lost aren’t there by accident;
some choose confusion, it’s self-evident.
They take for granted the status quo
and make decisions to make it so.
All those who’re lost don’t want to be found;
it’s too familiar, their common ground,
the box they dare not step an inch outside:
public opinion and their own sad pride.
All those who’re lost aren’t there from wandering;
just left behind from the army’s plundering
that made a wasteland left in its wake,
its former glories, its grand mistakes.
All those who’re lost aren’t seeking out
an answer to remove all doubt;
they’re building walls to try and close it in:
the truth of where they are and where they’ve been.
All those who’re lost don’t want a map,
unless it puts the world right in their lap;
it’s too much effort to reach the end
and find out you’ve got to begin again.
All those who’re lost aren’t there from wand’ring;
some are asleep, and dream of squandering
times and places they’ve not been,
describing wonders they’ve not seen.
03 AUG 2006
