I. . .

I am treble
with just a touch of bass.
I am a cool wind,
I hide behind my face.

I am sorrow
with yellowed pages.
I am youth,
although, youth ages.

I am a musician,
with my music unplayed.
I am a cactus,
still. . .
I need shade.

I am blue eyes,
I see. . .
but am not free.

I am
on the wings of an eagle
flying in borrowed skies. . .
I am teardrops,
falling from sorrowed eyes.

I am an artist,
I paint with blues only,
I try and paint happiness
for
those souls who are lonely.

I am melody,
I am a little off-key. . .
yet, I am rich
in thought's luxury.

I am blues,
and at times
will rebel,
for I have lived my life
in a checkerboard hell.

I am silk
and soft velvet
woven together.
I am violets,
and
dense fields of heather.

I am tired. . .
I will rest
with my head lying
on your soothing breast. . .