A Son of the South

Sing true,
and mourn of Southern Sorrow.
Speak sure this shade of blue,
a Kind of which you find in
Flamenco Sketches.

But what I see, feels more for
mother's soil than father's sun,
Who's rays beat upon my back
as it did the heat baked earth.

So I left...

and found myself miles from home
sleeping in purple lights and waking alone.
To this light I sang of Southern Sorrow
and showed it a shade of Blue.

So I found new warmth, well outside
of the Southern Sun, and hoped
such light would heal my wounds.
So my tune changed, and my
songs of sorrow became ballads.

Like an Island, I said, that I dwell
on most times of day. Such other
things that one thinks when they
sing. But before long I slipped
into darkness.

And it returned,
this shade of blue. That sits
every so slightly over my
shoulder, and makes my
world monochromatic.

But I remain, a son of Southern
Sorrow in a strange land. I'll
see if the Son rises different here,
and gives me new songs to sing.