Kind of Blue

As I wail, cry and scream, lost and disoriented and hurt, but awake, nothing happens.
So what?
Nowhere to aim, so no movement towards no direction, because why bother.
As I swirl and walk up and down the stairs, I might end in a unmistakable-smell-dark-room, in which an unconfusable music is played.
As I change mode and pace, a certain Kind of blue might be produced, sound and feeling. My kind of blue is dark blue, blathering while I'm lost in a far somewhere, thinking "Good banter Miles".
It's full of colors and empty of light,
it's those athwart lines crossing the red stream in which I plunge my nights,
it's the hand caressing and tossing and turning me around and around and pitching me so far away from myself that I suddenly show up in the most unknown of my rusty nostalgies,
it is my proclivity for muddiness and my helter-skelter faith to turn it into a lawn, drinking the witches brew that I smell in the air after the sunsets.
Nowhere to aim, so one direction at my own pace.
Because why not?