I often reflect on the times, big domino
who played the key board, and the sweat of his brow, sing black boy, as your key board flow, Sarah von steps out into the
crowed, I knew she was genuinely please, strutting her style, all those ladies in their conform style, never missed the flower
in her hair,
As the lady song the blues although
his awkward walk and stilted gestures reflected the physical pain she was trying so hard to hide, She was a lady in deed,
crying the pain, from her heart, oh in this misery of preformatted pain, and the tears that cried, as the joy she spread,
perforated suicide as she cried for help, under the code of black jazz, hiding the pain.
I also remember, bitter sweet, a symposium
of black jazz, featured in the cry, my man he doesn’t love me treats me oh so mean. The nature of jazz, with its Anesthesia
of musical and literary innovations, " is an arbitrary term at best and that allusions to jazz/blues. The day that lady died,
t he ultimate confusion of pain, the soul cannot stay within the body, if it is subsided with overwhelming pain. In this mist
of blues, the conception of history, that contemns the summary of slow death, but the spirit of its cause continue to live,
for the voices from the grave, continue to sing, the songs of Billy Holliday, the mist of the blues. the seemingly immortal
Lady Day, is gone
Through out this symmetry of blues,
the soul creates emotions, of the struggles, just to stay alive, the pain and the suggestions of survival in the 19th
century, to perform under all cause, it has be the struggles of those who un fold a ladder that we shall climb, never forgetting
the shoulders that stood, for those to climb, the mastery of greatness.
