Tarven tales

Tarven tales:

He strummed his guitar and the night's secrets began to unfold.
The blues played in mellow notes, mid-tones, like monochrome, it was black and white, like 80s photos.
The notes had no home like hobos, each vibrato treaded like a man with no foes.
The bass went solo and shined through like rose gold.
Grounded and bold while the scene told stories tenfold.
The man with the saxophone played like his lungs were a metronome.
He blew through the brass and made the note his own.
Another danced his fingers across ivory keys, savory, you'd drool to the sound of Do Re Mi's, basic and hidden in his effortless play, with alcohol in his blood, the whisky keeps the devil at bay.
The rhythm took control, like a fire that never grows old.
The music wove a spell, that the crowd couldn't unfold.
The beat pulsed like a heart, that never missed a stroke.
The melody whispered secrets, that only the soul could invoke.
The harmony swirled like a storm, that brought life to the night.
The music was a journey, that took the crowd to new heights.
With every chord, a memory was made, a story to be told.
The night was a canvas, painted with sound, a work of art to behold.
The musicians were the masters, of their craft and their fate.
Their music was the magic, that brought the crowd to their feet, to celebrate.
But in the shadows, a darkness crept, a melancholy that wouldn't sleep.
A haunting refrain, that echoed through the night.
A reminder that the music, was a fleeting light.
For in the silence, the demons would creep, and the darkness would seep.
And the musicians knew, that their art was a reprieve, from the darkness they couldn't leave.
Yet they danced with the shadows, in a waltz of sound and pain.
Their music was the fire, that burned away the rain.
And in the end, it was the music, that remained.
A beacon of hope, in the dark of the night.
A reminder that even in the shadows, there's still a light.

~○melcornia●