I grew up on Beacon Hill
near hollyhocks and pain.
The land was poor but beautiful…
the people there? The same.
The preacher's word on Beacon Hill
set many hearts aflame.
The fire then raged into the soul…
white whiskey did the same.
One stormy night on Beacon Hill
There was a poker game.
The whiskey flowed so easily…
The blood, it did the same.
A widow cried on Beacon Hill
left only with his name.
She stared into the empty years…
four children did the same.
The pain still thrives on Beacon Hill
no hollyhocks remain.
Their roots have withered long ago…
will mine do the same?
BACK ONE PAGE FORWARD ONE PAGE HOME
