I never used to feel haunted.
Until I lost what made me whole.
On my arm, she I flaunted.
Now she's gone, where is my soul?

Where is it? Where is the music?
My foot lies flat, no way to use it.
Now she haunts me day and night,
in the hollow where I hear the blues.

There's no music, like a funeral,
still, she plays the blues.
I'd held out hope still knowing all,
until I heard the news.

She's dead, not the way I am inside,
because I can still kick buckets
and there are no more dreams for her.

It makes the haunting deadly
what if we were wed? hic!
why aren't I dead, too? hic!
We'll never be together now...

Who is she, you ask?
She's my muse, who sang the blues.
She kept my feet and hands in tune.
My muse knew of all the birds in June,
their calls cataloged in stacks like dunes.

I don't know where she went,
but the haunting is severe.
She speaks in the hollow of my soul,
but, if I'm alive, why can't I hear?