by Mr Babylon
In the delta saltgrass or texas cotton
The ghost of the blues lies still,
Breathless and silent to remain undiscovered.
It creeps along gravelly roads and dusty highways,
Inching towards opportunity in the north,
And diving into ditches to remain unseen.
There its source lingers,
Born among the grief of forced immigrants.
But its energy has moved on,
Covered the continents in changeable form,
And left a bit of its spirit
Anywhere souls seek whiskey and sorrowful sound
To mend their dark moods.
Where sensual and sacrosanct leanings
Melt effortlessly into one urge,
Like the ancient axiom of oriental origin.
A ritual for balancing opposite sides of the human spectrum.