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
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