Faded paintings of blues players long dead

hang on the old water stained walls.

The music unites us

with a slow bass beat.

Beer, lager and malt whiskey

mix and match in a cloud of smoke,

giving flavor to the dark room.

This is real blues,

our blues.

Songs of soul.

Not sad,

not mad.

Just trying.

Living.

Striving to numb.

The singer closes his eyes,

thinks of his youth,

as his fingers move fast and furious

trying to relive it.

The sweat runs down his balding forehead

onto his black Les Paul.

Glistening, reflecting the moving colored lights.

We close our eyes

think of home.

Each wanting to forget

the loneliness.

Our need feeds off each other.

Darts are thrown and beers accidentally spill.

Laughing and yelling ring in my head

masking the loneliness

as I sink into oblivion,

slowly.

JUNE98

03/26/2003

Posted on 03/26/2003
Copyright © 2025 Derek Gregory