Old, Faded, Photographs.
Riding into Presbyterian Church,
A man of dreams talks the people to sleep on his perch.
Of ambitions of gold and old,
While cowering through the rain and snow.
He met Mrs. Miller,
A madam of business with dreams of her own,
A desire for birth,
A place to build, to share and grow.
They built up the town with soiled angels,
With quick tongues and what they were able.
But alas, good fortune was out of their grasp,
As the greed and death were looming to clasp.
The snow fell hard, the snow fell quiet,
As the men took their guns and went for a riot.
McCabe struggled and fought,
But a victory was not meant to be sought.
As McCabe died alone in the snow,
Mrs. Miller would be with dreams of her own.
In a den of forgetting, in a time of death,
She would shut off her mind and await as she drew her breath.
Her hand grasped and turned slowly, but her eyes suggested her mind was now lowly.
What sorrows and pain were now cost,
The dreams of man and humanity were now lost.