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Roadhouse Blues

He sat on an otherwise empty stage, a solo star,
in a tarpaper sided roadside bar closed for the night,
and picked the worn nylon strings of his old guitar,
venting his silent rage in each note with all his might.

Soulful, reaching, dragging memories out of the very air,
as he played from his heart alone, and fought the demons of his mind.
Bittersweet the music and the moods it evoked in him there,
and set the night alive, to dreams he thought he’d left behind.

His audience was made up of Father Time and the Fates doing downtime,
and the music of that soul held a power that flowed out among the stars.
God and all the Angles had the tables on the left, tapping their foot to mark the time.
and the music left a better place for the passing of its roiling current in that empty bar.

The last haunting note was hanging in the quiet air of dawn for so long,
and the tired worn player sat his guitar down and stood listening to the night.
He thought he heard clapping, and he swore he heard the echoes of his song,
and as he slowly walked from that ancient stage, he wore a unseen halo’d light.