on gordon lightfoot.
it's heart breaking.
how he feels the guilt and shame
of a thousand lovers
left in his wake.
the music giving cues to each
wrong step
along the way.
if you can read my mind,
to beautiful.
to in the early morning rain.
he's bone thin now, his
silver hair down his shoulders,
recovered from
drink
from drugs
from the never ending road.
the troubadour
still out there, still singing.
still writing
on his sheet of paper, the lyrics,
the notes.
still wanting just a little
bit more.
No comments:
Post a Comment