Post by sonnetinkinston on Jun 25, 2004 12:02:57 GMT -5
[This does not fit the poetry category, exactly. I consider it closer to the old Sketches that Charles Dickens wrote before he became the writer for the "Pickwick Papers." But here we go...]
Passion and grace intertwined, fingers poised, awaiting the music to arise from his soul, flow to and through, his fingertips vibrantly emanating a love for his work, all the while so self-conscious and doubting. His eyes glint with merriement, totally engrossed in the world in which he has surrounded himself, mischief dancing through his every movement. His fingers fly, and with total disregard he releases all inhibitions, lets go, and the magic begins. Not gradually, but instantly, intimate yet distant, penetrating into the innermost depths of the mind, heart, and soul; setting the body's passions aflame as the supernatural.
And all the while, unaware, he continues to play. With total innocence he continues to shred the sould, her life, into pieces with each chord, only to rebuild it more beautiful than its creation. She is dying, slowly, inevitably, but the one who causes her demise is also her resurrector, her savior, her hearts keeper. He holds the key, the one thing which has the ability to break the steel walls around her emotions, destroy the thinking machine to reveal the child within, naked, scared, but so trusting. Everyone thinks they understand her, happy-go-lucky one day, verge of depression the next. But it's all a mask, a cover, so no one can ever truly read her.
How can she deny the truths life has thrown before her? She can't. So she sits back, closes her eyes, opens her mind, and allows the music, the enchantment, to release her from the harsh realities, and return her to herself.
Passion and grace intertwined, fingers poised, awaiting the music to arise from his soul, flow to and through, his fingertips vibrantly emanating a love for his work, all the while so self-conscious and doubting. His eyes glint with merriement, totally engrossed in the world in which he has surrounded himself, mischief dancing through his every movement. His fingers fly, and with total disregard he releases all inhibitions, lets go, and the magic begins. Not gradually, but instantly, intimate yet distant, penetrating into the innermost depths of the mind, heart, and soul; setting the body's passions aflame as the supernatural.
And all the while, unaware, he continues to play. With total innocence he continues to shred the sould, her life, into pieces with each chord, only to rebuild it more beautiful than its creation. She is dying, slowly, inevitably, but the one who causes her demise is also her resurrector, her savior, her hearts keeper. He holds the key, the one thing which has the ability to break the steel walls around her emotions, destroy the thinking machine to reveal the child within, naked, scared, but so trusting. Everyone thinks they understand her, happy-go-lucky one day, verge of depression the next. But it's all a mask, a cover, so no one can ever truly read her.
How can she deny the truths life has thrown before her? She can't. So she sits back, closes her eyes, opens her mind, and allows the music, the enchantment, to release her from the harsh realities, and return her to herself.
