Listen, the holy disentanglement of neurons, survival of passion through the chords, listen, reverberations that break through the surface, entering soul, permeating grief, forgotten crystals that fantasy entombed, listen, oh immortal Poet of the cosmos, harmonious oscillations in sync with the source, listen, close your eyes, sink into the sensation that sound is your sanctuary, lofty sounds, sounds that terminate doubt, extinguishing flames, where the planets have no name, listen, drink in the notes that flood your passions, caressing joy, embalming forgiveness, a tomb for the regrets, listen, love and laughter swimming around the chemicals, nutrients of salvation that bend the chords, listen, the emptiness opens your eye, unseals the juicy trance, listen, wings that strum high on lithium through the mysterium, listen, portal to heaven vibrating through the spheres.
Calmly does peace of mind suture the void that between souls shed shadows into light. Vesicles of pheromones to dizzy the social apparatus, unconscious linkage of their arms at the shearing's fulcrum. Two blades of personality, sharp as the ringing of Sunday bells, separated at birth, moving closer as time's axle conspires with the elements, smiles wrapped in perfume disarmed by the bush. Though they quarrel by verse, divided by maximum extent, they are united in chorus, locked in comfort as they shears come together, two of a kind, a pair of dangerous allies, snipping at anything that comes in their path.
Marriage of sound and rhythm weave these webs of destiny. Those caught in their snare relent to the course of life, those that don't are running from the song, the song that life is singing for them, ears closed to any suggestion of selfless achievement. It doesn't matter in the end, the song always catches them, even those driven, deaf to consequences. Once caught, the soul is immediately released to an ocean of vibration, where time stands still and the shears interlace. All that can be felt is the sweet melody, where the music lives.
At the treehouse park an ordinary old man plays his guitar, simply and softly. The children chirp as they play under sun-soaked evergreen canopies. Their song is his, running and leaping around him, serenading his solo like a flock of flamingos. They tell him to watch out for the bees, golden strings that buzz through wildflowers, inviting sunlight. Children-song endorses his slow picking as it pacifies the playground dressed in trunks, leaves, branches, light footsteps treading on brown and green. The sounds carry to a curious family with little ones, aimlessly trumpeting around a tennis court. He watches the children clambering in playful abandon, a wild brass duet to accelerate his reserve, suddenly warbling in unison the chorus to "Waltzing Matilda". And it all makes sense.
A stone ejected from a supernova spends an eternity in space, waiting for her. Millions of orbits it passes in blind anticipation, descending into a gravity nexus built of stone on top of stone. Eons it spends cooling, reheating, cooling again, the cycles of settlement like life and death, waiting for her. Long has it listened, in the place where music lives, only to wait for her. The oceans churn, the mountain roll and tumble, animals come and go, the sun and the ice share supremacy, and still it waits for her. Until one day, in the cozy nook of the cavern, it hears her for the first time, a jingling child of the jungle, fetching gem for the trade. She sings that there's a lady who's sure all that glitters is gold.
