The telegraph gave us hope before was the silence and the panic it brought.
The sky was the blankest sheet, we drew lines upon it so our thoughts could meet, through cables black and cold we carry our intentions to bridge, and bring home.
Would it all be so clear if the lines were erased, and the silence restored?

Boys of today write lines on walls in the streets at night, in suburbs of cities with no name. Is this destruction, or just quiet protest against loneliness?

The cargo lies in our laps, their weight is so heavy, and this is all we know.
Our message will need a ship to travel across oceans that can't otherwise be crossed.
It undulates on the waves, and cautions the water so we can be safe

it undulates on the waves, then cautions the water so we can be safe

Kings of convenience - My ship isn't pretty