The Sound of Heaven

    Between the numbers I found mountains slammed by cannonball that the organ fired from angry pipes. A dangling sax tap danced on crystals bisected once the band split. I couldn't remember the equation, but I knew the answer anyway, so I worked backwards, doing everything in reverse algebra. A whistle came from the background, a lonely harmonica drowsy with sleep that dawn spliced open the rainbow with. As I sat there in school, bored to tears, the echo of a traipsing piano ambled up the paper, fermenting facts and figures into waxed memory. The vision was clear, and I became one with the sound. My classmates looked at me askew, an outsider with a broken pencil, who instead of hearing the lecture could only hear heaven.