I sit, my frostbitten toes soaked with blood.
Is this my karma?
My destiny?
Perhaps a coincidence?
Or is it only a dream?
An old shriveled up women,
A delicate thing,
sits beside me at my death bed.
She whistles a tune on her old metal harmonica.
--Hunny! Hunny--
She began to sing,
--Life is but a gift--
--Ain't no one deserve it--
--But if we hold onto it tight--
--Until that end fight--
--Our dreary soaken blues--
-- Will be our path to follow through--
I listened that day,
Remembering her touch,
that old blues saint!
She died that night,
Not even putting up a fight.
She took her gift and gave it to me.
O! That saints touch!
I can still hear her today,
As i carry on day to day.
Carrying this gift,
Looking for the next victim,
Ready for the soaken blues.