Rich in the night he slays,
Dreaming, weeping.
Echoing riffs through artificial valleys and alleys
While torturing the living and the dead
With his soul.
Long sounds, blue tones bobbing on the moist city air,
Yesterday’s raindrops dancing with each.
A run; 30 notes fly, brass demons taking their shot out of hell.
No one notices.
Lone, lonely he stands, back pressed rough against the cool brick,
Beaten hat slid to the side and a pocket full of emptiness.
His road is at its end, down to his last reed and last rites.
Another fifty cents could get him a last drink, but that luxury is denied.
Sorrowful lament in D minor, sixteen off-tempo bars ’til the last ghost note sways.
His breath shallow, his fingers weak.
One last wail into the darkness.
Crescendo…sweet, high and red on black, his best ever,
Desperately reaching out to a million ears.
None will hear.
With the final high G, the reed splits.
And so does he.
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