The Magic of the Blues
Music also lives.
There is truth in pain.
All men, women, children feel the heart's beat.
There is always music in Hope,
and there is Truth in the Blues.
Even the whitest of white men
is only three heartbreaks away
from being a bluesman.
The Blues was born
the day the verdant West African shoreline
fell away from sight,
while the overloaded ship
slipped away from the horizon.
The only way the magic of the Blues will ever die out
from the musical language of this world we share
is if by some small chance the power of love
becomes greater than the love of power
and the world knows nothing but peace.
This poem is a Fibonacci sequence.
©2015 Christopher Reilley
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