To Music,
Dated: C-note minor.’ Forty Seventh courtesy.
As the human lady etched in with the black iridescent feathers, dawns the ballet, tip toeing, galvanizing a tarpaulin of my onyx fabric, I yearned for you. I cursed my powerless arms and legs to cup you into my equally powerless palms, and pour yourself into me. Make me sail, for you, you could even make the adulterated humans fall in love with yourself. But here, I’m caught with the form-bearers. Spineless, callous humans. Ideally, the love should be proclaimed beginning with readjustment of my milky black tie and unnervingly, charming mystic smile. For all I am sanguine about is my ability to hit the right chord. You would love it, won’t you? Who with the mind, regardless of any kind of concrete form, doesn’t fall for murky kind? I am the bad guy.
You’re the one with cardinal beauty, irrespective of the positioned height disposed to you, it’ll be all meagre.
The opera climbing up the stairs of tarantism, the dancer pompously declaring her menace and sighed shrieks through perspiring tears and hysterical mascara streaks over the flesh; piano acts as the radical whipping instrument. Black keys whipping away the rationality and the white one’s etching an in-satiated thirst for mania. Blessed are the humans for they can cry and their erring nature can be accepted for ‘humans.’ I’m not just a pervasive faux passé. I could be considered as the same transitional enchanted carpet of Eros. In dilemma, by dilemma, delusions occur. I make them happen. I can lay down a bare unstriated cloth of love, and people can stumble upon it. For that’s why what the benevolent Mist does. Blame for deception has been perennial for a while now.
The stage lights are too stark, I camouflaged into pale ochre. This hue eases away my guilt. This thirty-second ballet is close to termination and thereby the non-challenged theory: “August artists embrace the forlorn demise,” covets the existence.
Let’s escape.
Let’s escape being the shroud to the puppet humans and melody to the tyrannous piano.
Let’s escape the realm of the neon artists, sailing in their vessels of delusions brilliant minds being fed by the theory.
Tarantism doesn’t need to see its end.
From- Mist, onyx.
To- Mist.
Dated: A-note major.’ The last pirouette.
You’re beautiful.
I did witness the end of the tarantism although.
The thirty-second ballet this was, as you counted… You’re as beautiful as many notes reflected in this cosmos poised of us ingredients. And even those notes, which are not yet reflected. You proposed absconding, impatiently, by the margin of few clock ticks. The neon artist failed this time, Mist.
It wouldn’t be banner of velvet modesty if I propose the confession of not being as good an orator as you are. Simple with letters, twirling with harmonies, I am.
Exchanging the ideas in the terms of pure and adulterated, does that suggests us to be the adjudicator? Contamination can be corroborated by the idea of the presence of gender amongst the humans. One gender to another. Formless to another formless makes more sense, doesn’t it? Purer maybe. Any kind of love isn’t tainted, but its pseudo development is. Form-bearers or form-less, disregarding that notion. Skinless iotas have uncertainty, insecurity, guilt and hesitance too, how does that vary us from them? Tyrannous crown could be passed on to the gravity for grasping everything with its reach. But then again, everything is exhibiting its deed of counterbalancing. Piano when accursed to be the sanity soakers of the typical humans, is also, the sanity restorers to the probing schizophrenic artists. Humans and artists are divergent, do remember. You’ll soon fail to be remorseful of your hazy onyx when you’ll be stricken down with the lumbering revelation.
You don’t evoke delusions but mirages. Reflect illusions. Mirages are the illusions expanded by the rubbers of the eternal metal malleability. Illusions- the capability of one’s own thoughts of the mind. Transfixed in the miasma, they mirage what they think of.
The lady dancer was saved by the gallant Aquarian man. Armoured with amethyst nuggets of perseverance, he was. No matter how much she kicked and whimpered to sink in the floors of isolation, he would pick her up softly by her waist and make her see beyond the realm of shady decaying artists. As I carry you too, to make you view the above territory of a diverse terrace which was much unplumbed and crux. Just like your innocent oblivion, much of form-bearers and formless extinguish into colourless vapours before climbing up the upper nebula realm.
Neon is a phase, as philosophers’ rests on the nebula with the permanent residency.
The question will always lose its equilibrium to being a neon artist or a philosopher? Neon artist like all malice is seductive.
The tarantism ended, saving a life. Proving the theory “August artists embrace the forlorn demise,” apocryphal.
Nobody dies a lonely death, excepting the undetermined belief of alone itself. Thenceforth, nobody will be as voodooed as the lonely.
The thirty second ballet cocooned out a philosopher metamorphosis. Even if that means you continue swathing more neon performers, and me sailing the melody by the piano. Love in an unaccomplished amalgam. The buoyancy upraising hope can’t be perished for more conversions, can they?
From- Music.