Gordon Lightfoot
The Marquee whispered, Gorden is gone...
The Edmund Fitzgerald briefly raised its bow
from the black icy depths of its echoes.
Carefree highway shimmering, flecks of gold
if you could read my mind love
It would wish your chords to never grow old.
It's Sundown, the maple leaf sways in great sadness.
melodies cascading gently down from the heavens.
Copyright © Anthony Biaanco | Year Posted 2023
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