Indigo Nights

** #1504271 Not An Image **

There is a certain sadness, in the evening's waning heat,
about the girls that sell their wares on Bourbon Street.
Behind the masks of gaiety, I think the source is seen
of the melancholy feelings that make the blues supreme.

“La belle” she went by on the street, with hair of flaming red.
With a whisky-throated sigh, she would call you to her bed.
It wasn’t just for money, it staved off loneliness.
You’d see it in her eyes as she slowly undressed.

She’d fold you in her arms, and you could hear her need
in the lyric fragments she would murmur, almost plead,
reciting Holiday and Smith, her eyes focused far away,
while softly in the background you’d hear King or Waters play.

Her alabaster skin was soft, her breasts were full and warm.
She’d hold you in her tenderness and keep you safe from harm.
Then passion would come over her, and with pleasured cries,
she’d fulfill your fantasies as tears would fill her eyes.

With pleasure past, she’d take you in her arms once more.
and rock you gently as her mind returned to distant shores
where the keeper of her heart was lost in a mindless war.
She’d lay there humming memories until you closed the door.

Like a song that’s in your head, a bittersweet refrain,
she'll live in your memory in an indigo domain.

Notes:  I saw this painting and this is the story it told me.

Thank you for reading; please take a moment and let me know how you felt about this.  Criticism or praise is equally welcome.