Lonesome rails carry stones into the valley of the gun.
Bone yards gleam quicksilver beneath a cold winters sun.
Patriot’s faith of yesterday; forgotten dreams stole away.
Rambling rumbles comes soft on the night train of a dreamer’s highway.
Whistles melancholy now blow all aboard.
Platforms empty into chasms dark door.
Blank expressions claim the sea of desperate faces.
The conductor smiles as to those who the darkness chases.
Oh lonesome rails that lead to home.
Bone yards glisten; going, gone.
J. Allen Wilson © Three 2007