Robert Johnson blues

in the old blues song

you come to the crossroads

and if you desire

a deal with the devil

can be strummed

I walked my path

alone and distraught

and at that crossroads

where Mara sat

waiting

hoping to play her tune

on my guitar

I didn’t sing her song

I didn’t deliver a deal

but

I didn’t pass her by

I gave her my hand

and helped her up the road

sat her down in high grass

with a picnic box

and a set of spoons

fingers crossed

next one at the spot

where the dirt roads cross

will keep on walking

when no one ever shows

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the things that wash away

memory fails

too often than not

the sound of your voice

your choice of fragrant balm

lost into the tunnels of time

why do some things stick?

like grass stains on petticoat

faint ghost reminder remains

embedded into fabric

the leafy mark

imprinted forever on my soul

and others wash out

no matter how I try

to hold them close

or pull them back

they rinse out

running in the water

dissolving among the rolling

river of recollect