Leonard Won'T Leave

outside the suffering winds of November mourn through the skeletal trees fanning the glow of the last starving embers that darken as life turns to peace Leonard won't leave with the gates drawn wide open he's leaning back in his wooden chair with his heels dug into a table top broken his drawings and poems all there a cigarette chokes between talented fingers it's ashes pile up on the floor a guitar that sits on his lap still lingers with the unfinished songs of the poor on a hook that is nailed to a door in the kitchen his chapeau is hung like a stone it sways like the tide with the creak of the hinges the Angels have not come alone the Name that evaded his relentless passion the sadness that drew down his eyes have come to gather the spent and the ashen back home beyond clouds in the sky he knelt on the mountain he stood in the valley he spoke for the strong and the meek he sat at the store front and walked in the alley where no one is quite what they seem inside the room now the air hangs less heavy the gates have been drawn closed again Leonard has left here to follow the many who have lived their lives full to the end