The Weary Blues: A Paraphrase Sticking around and waiting for something to happen is really tiresome. It doesn't matter how much we might want it to, nothing ever really happens. Maybe one day, but

Droning the Exhausted Hues by Langston Hughes: Deep through the night I listened to a man Playing sorrowful tunes on a black-and-white piano, Striking the keys slowly, humming the blues to himself, And I kept hearing the sounds - The weary, disheartened music. He unfolded his story with those notes, As though he had no words, Only the dark chords from his ebony-and-ivory keyboard, Like a somber, mumbling old poet Sinking into the deep blues of solitude. He did it over and again, You could hear his heartache in the repetition, And each time the words seemed heavier, Just like the burden in his soul, Weighing him down with the melancholic refrain. He touched the keys, making melancholy music, As if all his dreams had perished, And as though life had smashed them to dust, With nothing left except the sadness, In those slow, fading chords. No one smiled nor did they dance within that space, But their faces bore varying shades of gloom, As they sat with mournful spirits, Wrapped in the tendrils of this sad song, Shrouded in his forlorn symphony. Then at last he struck the last bar, As if he knew that finally, The blues were all that remained, And with a breaking sigh, he yielded, Allowing silence to fill the room once more. His restless fingers ceased their dance, And the notes that had wept from his piano, Now turned into a final, gentle hum, Pulled from his wearied body, Dissipating in his dark, grieving slumber. And when the dawn spilled over the horizon, Its light revealed the blues in my soul, The sorrowful notes of the night before, Still echoing in my being, Dragging the weary hues of melancholy with them.