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When at last the western mountains catch the fleeing sun, And night’s black velvet fingers signal day is done, I’ll put away the tools and toil of another day, And to the “Fool’s Cathedral,” once more I’ll make my way. Upon the hardwood alter once more I’ll lay my sins, And there I’ll seek communion to cleanse my soul again. The High Priest in the pulpit will serve the sacred wine, If I can pay the pittance for the sacraments divine. And the sacred amber fluid will wash my sins away, And I will be, the man I’d be, until the break of day. Then, when my mind is reeling with salvation born of wine, Some “Neon Queen of Darkness” will help me spend my time. On a bed that sorrow made, of lost loves bitter tears, We’ll sip the wine together to put away our fears, And this lovely “Fallen Angle” will lie down by my side, To help me dream the dream of fools that think they’re satisfied.
This poem was written in the 1960’s when two of my brothers and I were living this life style. Some of us escaped and one did not; he died of acute alcoholism in 2000. Yes I know wine is red and am aware of the symbolisn, amber reads better and cowboys drink "amber fluid."
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