Frontman

Frontman, where goes the truth?
Where do you hide when the lights are no longer on you?

Frontman, oh come on, tell us about the darkness!
When the roars die, who else shares in this bounteous harvest?

See, your unloved shores rest beneath a mackerel sky;
You left your tooth in the jaws of a youth you deify;
A flare burns bright at the end of the tunnel.
Is this the signal for your rout?

Frontman, does silence come easy?
What do you become when the action ceases?

Frontman, why can’t you find stillness?
Why do you let dust upset your eyes and get all over your business?

How unjust, the theatre is all that does not rust beneath this sky;
Your defiance is just violence that could never satisfy
A fraction of the solace you seek.
What flowers are these that they lay at your feet?

It only goes to show, your line of sight;
It only builds to the next act of your blight;
It only descends as a raging flow, hesitant and white;
It only grows. This is all you know.

Have you seen the way you treat your stories?
What kind of man are you this week?
The crowd that you are working on
Lays claim to the ground you keep.

Let them love your shores that rest ignored beneath a mackerel sky;
You can spend your winter in your theatre in praise of all that’s nigh;
If the shirt is heavy then get out.
Follow the signal to your rout.