Going Where The Wind Go Poem by Gerry Legister

With a dream in my soul
I am holding fast to my faith
when I die, broken and old
I want to make it through the winged gate.

When the breath go
And friends are no more
The memories will burn slow,
With my ashes spilled on the floor.

When the drum beat
I hear the whispering of my name
At the sound of the angels cold marching feet
I turned to see the portrait in a frame.

Clean circling flame wandering out of the world
Carried away over the railroad.