Fighting and kicking into the final goodnight.
And of my soul,
preacher man along the way has died and set
me free.
Will I be measured in that second sight, few had
and never knew.
Can I go home to rest upon the surface of the sun,
and never burn.
Stay with me as I grow week and stay and hold
my hand.
Copyright © James McLain | Year Posted 2022
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem