Take a man, a simple man, any kind of man. You call him "Sorrow", every morning as sure as the sun will rise, as the sun will set, he sits on his corner just drinking ole Mississippi rye, and playing his old beat up six string. Dressed in rags of what was a second hand suit, third class hat and bargain basement shoes. But you still hear that sweat sound of his old six string, six blocks from the land mark of Equal Rights, just left of a street named after a state known for no sales tax.That burboan burping man plays his sweet guitar like the harp of Saint Micheal, Saint George, and the inner circle of what ever Gods angels. He plays his old broken and taped six string songs of generations past, a man who marched with King, X, and cried softly on his guitar when JFK waved for the last time. But he smiles, his breath smells of stale tobacco, cheap spirits, but his hand's have yet to fail him.
His voice sing's tales of a time long past, his words preach of a time so removed from our own it makes a person wonder actually how far we have come as humans. Questions that scare us, these who we call "Sorrow". Do we just ignore it, or do we stop and buy the man with the sweet sound, a cup of coffee and a hot meal?
I leave that up to you.
![[send message]](https://www.writerscafe.org/images/mail.png){kind=small}
![[befriend]](https://www.writerscafe.org/images/friend.png){kind=small}
Share This
Email
Facebook
Twitter
Read Request
My Library
Flag Writing
