If a grain of sand was to be moved from the realms of the multitudes of its brothers and sisters,
levitating in a sweeping dance by the barren breath of the Sahara, floating elegantly onto a wild cat’s sleeping brow; a steady breathing for its rocking cot.
If lightning was to become a greater source of life than that of the moon; if it were to take its place as
King of the Skies
bawling his desires into open freedom. Voice shaped of thunder; earthly rattle. A colossal bolt of electric woe with nothing but black space listening.
If a melodic note could not only be heard but also seen,
unleashed from the hollow wood or the sharp brass; aroused by the accrual of others to absorb the very infinity that encases them.
The waves clash once! Once more they thrive against the abandoned ceiling of the musical vault.
Fairy notes play hide-and-seek through cracks under rows of dusty chairs and into pockets of unused suits. Reflecting diamonds on ageing necklaces they spiral back in racing, multi-coloured lights, corresponding to their place in the hierarchy of sounds:
Each string for a voice, each beat for a thought.
I see the grain of sand moulding onto the shape of the King’s nose, as I gently step on the soft heap it once lived in.
I see the King’s tears cascade down the black skies as I gently step on the layers that have been shed before.
I see the King come to life as he explodes into several rhythmic constellations of noise, while I gently step on the reverberating floor boards.
I see the pasty area that one would call your face.
I suddenly see my face as yours and am deafened by the silence that comes with the glass between us.