Wild Roses and Satin © R. Leschen (7 December 2006)
Wild roses and satin, coalesce in a dream, wild roses and satin release me from pain,
From the great
Four strokes and a whistle, I merge with the sound, from the Mainstreet Mission, where the folks gather round,
The textureís ideal, for reachiní the sky, doors open for business, to all passers-by.
The empty street market where the late Andrew Jackson still stands,
Advanciní a nation, honoriní the struggliní man.
The old caretaker, with the tears on his face, he looks through the window, to a forgotten place,
The grey-stained gazebo is all that remains, of roses and satin, and a love in the rain.
Front Street is wasted, its store fronts have faded and died,
Looking for tender, the vendors surrender and sigh.
The mourning dove whispers, then begins his refrain, the Eight AM train, forgets us again,
Broadside and broken, half-tried and broke down, wild roses and satin, take a long look around.
Wild roses and satin itís a long long way down.