Soaken Blues

I sit, my frostbitten toes soaked with blood.
Is this my karma?
My destiny?
Perhaps a coincidence?
Or is it only a dream?
An old shriveled up women,
A delicate thing,
sits beside me at my death bed.
She whistles a tune on her old metal harmonica.
--Hunny! Hunny--
She began to sing,
--Life is but a gift--
--Ain't no one deserve it--
--But if we hold onto it tight--
--Until that end fight--
--Our dreary soaken blues--
-- Will be our path to follow through--
I listened that day,
Remembering her touch,
that old blues saint!
She died that night,
Not even putting up a fight.
She took her gift and gave it to me.
O! That saints touch!
I can still hear her today,
As i carry on day to day.
Carrying this gift,
Looking for the next victim,
Ready for the soaken blues.





Join the Discussion

This article has 2 comments. Post your own now!

PJD17 This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine. said...
Mar. 27, 2011 at 8:58 am
very impressive poem  i'm afraid im no good at giving feedback on poetry but i will say that what i have read of you so far has been very very good  keep it up
 
PerfectMGymnast This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine. replied...
Mar. 28, 2011 at 11:21 pm
Thanks so much!!! I appreciate all the comments!! :)
 
bRealTime banner ad on the left side
Site Feedback