The Cry of the Blues Man

Written by Melissa McMahan Copyright

Off the interstate where everyday people drive coming and going to pay for their cookie cutter houses in the ordered suburbs and new model cars. Children that come running for the ice cream truck which drives by everyday and the tired ritual of mowing their green lawns three of the four seasons. There just outside of this dull trap of the American dream is a tiny dive, with it's flickering neon and peeling gray paint. In some peoples eyes it not much to look at or in any event given a second thought about. However there was magic here that once you stepped inside it washed over the human soul like a cool wave of water from the heat of long summer days. The sweetly sad sound of the blues filled the air of the night skyline as the moon seemed to dance to it's slow drum beat. The singer was a skinny old man whose fingers would caress the strings of his old worn guitar bringing out secret rhythm. The pain of his bloodline flowed from his hands into the metal and wood of this old friend of his. From his dried parted lips with a deep low voice full of pain and sorrow, came the story of his own life. His problem was evidently a drinking problem caused by unrequited love. The warm tears falling down his face showed more of the truth behind a broken heart of youth that haunted the rest of his life. When the music ended he would always leave the stage with his head hanging down and would get a bottle of liquor from behind the bar. Off the interstate nestled behind this old run down bar there is a decayed caravan where this old musician lived with his meager positions and faded dreams. On the mirror in the bathroom where the photo of a woman hangs, she's a vision of a rusted memory of a Blues man cry that's heard no more.

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