I am a singer of the blues.
The violent violet melodies of my verses
Flow from the farthest fathoms of when I loved you.
And when you left the loving, lingering lap
Of my most marriageable moments,
I began to sing the blues.
And now I weep in my ridiculous repetition
Over the open and obvious outcries of your going.
And as I cry in crazed calamity
I pound my periling self against the pungent pavement
And I inhale the scent of my bluesy freedom.
My blues no longer betray a bitter and bespoiled state
But rather rectify my most righteous remembrance of us.
And now I sing, in my sultry way, a salute
To the tailored thought we built together.
That naïve notion no longer gnaws at my insides,
Tearing and tormenting with teeth in terrible continuance.
The concept of the us that was creates the content for my colorful crooning.
The whim of we will worm its way with a winning willfulness
Into the very virtue of my vivacious verse,
I am a singer of the blues.
Despite you, because of you,
I will sing most sincerely the sweet and sorrowful song
Of a now contented creator.