Monk


His foot taps against the piano.
I hear it, on this old record. I don’t miss a thing.
It’s a cold day today, snow is pushing its way through
My state, and its put me in a grey state.
A grey blue state, I feel blue and I do not know
What to do.
The words wind through my head, and I listen to him play
That old record runs on
The ivory keys, each touched gently.
He thinks so quick.
He thought so much.
So much harmony, so much nobody got.
But I think I get it,
Thelonious had the old blues,
The ones I got too,
He put them on the keys,
Each finger striking a tone and
Bringing new melody and harmony
To life.
Part of me envies him. Even in death.
Part of me pities him.
I hear that sad old song of winter skies so grey,
Marching out on the keys.
Its sad to think so much and speak so little,
Too love so few so much,
And then to lose.
It’s sad to have a beauty you never can share.
Empty chairs mark roads of despair,
Love ones lost were once found there
Eyes once saw that fell into disrepair.
Lost them all, one by one, lost summer skies and sun,
And the grey came, and the blues too, and the beauty no one could view.
Well I’m a monk, just like him,
Alone where the room is dim.
I have four feet of brass and no where to shine
And all the time in a world that’s mine.
I’ll be a monk.
I’ll settle down
Into the dirt and dust,
I’ll bleed and rust
And curse the old sun who never comes,
And wish I wasn’t so blue,
But know that I need it too.

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About theonlyjoe

I am Joe. This is a collection of my ramblings, poems, stories, afflictions, victories, and the picture of my mind. Make yourselves at home. View all posts by theonlyjoe

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