No trace of the blues laid on his face.
Sometimes you could see a glint of tear-licked regret,
But an unkempt beard logged and hid
Any water if he had been crying.
But boy when he sang,
Repeating that same sob story into the infinite,
That chained-up hellhound would howl somethin’ fierce;
Lightning bolts were the strings to his guitar, and his roars were thunderous.
Oh how he would bellow of his heartbreak and rootlessness
In isolated protest
For he was a mere spittin’ distance from Heaven,
Despite being the farthest being from God.