Poetry

Spooktown, 6 (280.)

Take me back to bluegrass country,
though I know that truly,
should I stuff bluegrass into my bones
and put a guitar in my hands,
bluegrass will go with me always.
There need not be any going back.
Just tromping forward,
head high, spine stretched,
vocal cords satisfied.
All the songs to sing,
and time to sing them.
Little messages that say
I’m here, I live, I love.

P.S. We are all notes in some cosmic composition. Praise be.

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