A Blue World
“A Blue World”
The old man sat on the bench. The sun was bright, a few clouds dotted the blue ski. The palms were fat and green, and it was beautiful. But the old man felt melancholy anyway, and he didn’t know why. So, he thought about his music; “Was he a soul man?” “An old man?” “Or no man?” He couldn’t tell. Not at that moment. Because of the melancholy, which hung like an obsidian cloud in the space just over his head.
“Let there be light!” he thought. “Yeah….let there be light.” his inner voice trailed off in the distance—and the cloud hung lower—getting blacker, settling like a thick molasses, causing the old man to settle in and silently pet his dog.
“It could be a good day for the blues.” he thought. That would be creative, and maybe, just maybe, the cloud would lift, and then, he would be old, no more. Just a blues-man, where age doesn’t matter, except in a good way.
This was the story.
This was the chapter, and the verse.
A blue world.
In more ways than one.
Mark Magula
The old man sat on the bench. The sun was bright, a few clouds dotted the blue ski. The palms were fat and green, and it was beautiful. But the old man felt melancholy anyway, and he didn’t know why. So, he thought about his music; “Was he a soul man?” “An old man?” “Or no man?” He couldn’t tell. Not at that moment. Because of the melancholy, which hung like an obsidian cloud in the space just over his head.
“Let there be light!” he thought. “Yeah….let there be light.” his inner voice trailed off in the distance—and the cloud hung lower—getting blacker, settling like a thick molasses, causing the old man to settle in and silently pet his dog.
“It could be a good day for the blues.” he thought. That would be creative, and maybe, just maybe, the cloud would lift, and then, he would be old, no more. Just a blues-man, where age doesn’t matter, except in a good way.
This was the story.
This was the chapter, and the verse.
A blue world.
In more ways than one.
Mark Magula