In shadows of guitars, the road winds long,
Notes rise like dust, echoing from shore to shore.
The highways hum with a familiar ache,
An anthem for the restless, the bruised dreamers.
Your voice, gravel spun from the Jersey wind,
Cuts through the quiet fields of forgotten towns.
Seventy-five and still the night waits for you,
A road song, old but fresh as the breaking dawn.
You taught us the chorus of hope and hunger,
Where each verse burns like a street-lit prayer,
The working man’s blues wrapped in leather,
A whisper to the lost, a roar to the living.
Today the world hums your familiar tune,
The fire in your words refuses to dim,
And in the beating heart of America’s song,
We raise a glass, a fist, and sing again.
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Author:
gray0328 (
Offline) - Published: September 28th, 2024 12:02
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 17
- Users favorite of this poem: Cheeky Missy
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Comments1
Wow, if my mind were less bogged down or me less ignorant, I might know better whom you've dedicated this so beautiful to, rendered with a subtly striking poignancy and a delicious abundance of details, imagery to make the soul swoon, and a tenderness to woo the same to sleep. Thank you very much for sharing. I love it.
It was Bruce Springsteen's birthday, ,"the Boss." You don't know who Bruce Springsteen is??
Oh. I am hardly acquainted, frankly. Having never bothered to know his music since it didn't really appeal to my tastes, thank you so very much for enlightening me. No, I'll need to look up that number. Thanks again.
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