Lonely man, lonely road.

On his back his guitar rode.

I see the years on his face.

I see the pain in his eyes.

I hear the words of his song.

I feel the music from that guitar.

Hands like leather.

His hair winters cold.

On his back his guitar rode.

Life’s been hard.

Life’s been grand.

Yet like the mountain he will not change.

Bottle in his left.

Sand in his right.

He can’t let go, not for one night.

He can’t move forward.

In his past the younger man’s eyes.

Holds the world captive with his sound.

The whole world loved him.

The whole world cried.

He could not put down his bottle, but falling sand.

So in his dreams he still sees those lights.

Feels the music.

Tastes the smoke filled bar.
 

Copyright © 2006-2007, Kenneth Dale Connelly