The Singing Blues – Vincent Edward Manda

It’s the smell of decay

Following the way

Making up the footsteps

Of my day.

 

It is the smell of years spent

Chasing the ideals of a money tree

In the concrete place

We all call home.

 

The numbers appear and disappear,

Just as the hungry

Appear and disappear;

The numbers, they dance

To the songs of loose change falling

Into a coffee cup.

 

The numbers, they dance

To the sound of spare change

Ringing on the counter top

In exchange for whiskey,

Tissues and food.

 

The numbers they dance,

Unaware of the blues,

Unaware of the evil,

The evil of dreaming higher

Than the nothing you have;

The nothing you are.

 

And the blues, the blues they sing

Of historic troubles undreamt of,

 

They sing of the decay

Making hearts weep for days,

They sing of footsteps

Leading to no place.

 

The blues, they sing

Of what’s always been known

And never acknowledged.

 

And the numbers, they dance

To a master that isn’t your pocket.

 

And all the while

Each second

Seeps into the gutter,

Until you are drowned so far

You can’t even see the stars.

eduard696dantes

his name rhymes with ‘mince’. He’s rarely without a notebook and can usually be found next to the closest bottle of red wine. Previously a writer for The Roehampton Lane Journal.

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