Broken Guitar Blues

Little beads on the broken guitar,
strumming through the echoes of a life ajar.
Where tourists won't tread, nor decay reclaim—
a victorial haze into a forgotten name.
Colonial mazes burn into flame,
a history buried, yet calling my name.

You wouldn't know what to say to yourself
in the squeak and eek of this dictatorial hell.
Let it out, let it flow—
a little destination just down the road.

Jigsaw jazz in an intimate groove,
bottles and cans that clatter and move.
Pick yourself up, scrape the dust off your shoes,
swing to the rhythm of microphone blues.

Let’s let it out, let’s break and confide,
sing through the chaos that we try to hide.
The past is a flame, the future a ghost,
but here in the moment, we dance the most.

Little beads of sweat, little beads of pain,
the broken guitar sings a familiar refrain.
A jigsaw puzzle with pieces askew,
a journey of echoes, where the old turns new.

Swing low, swing high, let the music confide—
a voice that’s been buried, a soul we can’t hide.
Through bottles and cans, through forgotten lanes,
we dance with the blues, we sing through the flames.

Let’s let it out, let the jazz unwind,
a melody lost, but a rhythm to find.
Pick yourself up, off the jaded road,
and let’s swing to the beat of the stories untold.

For what is decay but a chance to renew,
a rhythm reborn in the old and the blue?
So play that guitar, let the beads rain down,
a soundtrack to memories we’ve never found.