it was birthed in the bosom of his soul;
forged by passion for pain and pleasure--
manifested in musical mold.
Autumn fire pales in comparison
to the color and texture
that saturated the air
everytime he played,
with every song he made;
of scales and chords
he broke the chains--
blew in the face of such disciplines,
leaving landscape forever changed.
As a wingman for Miles
he built smokey spots in Philly',
riff by riff,
note by note;
and later for Monk
when they took NYC
and made the 5 Spot the place to be--
He played for Cousin Mary;
took giant steps while my lady sleeps;
exchanged violets for your furs;
showed us the lush life
with Trane's slow blues,
while he played for Naima
like someone in love.
He made the bass blues leave me breathless
as if it were hot like summertime.
And when autumn leaves fell
the world grew afro blue,
for we knew that the color of
pleasure and pain,
scales and chords,
violets and furs
would never be played the same.
Train has reached the station
conquering his demons before his last stop
comfortable with Alice
and all that surrounded him
and if one listens closely,
they hear in the saturated air
the vision in sound.
May his soul rest in peace
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