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Orchestrated Symphony of Independent Thought Saturday’s Starlit Eve: The two of us immersed In the glory of the symphony----- Of all things… Not like the rock concert, with ear-splitting noise, or art show of shellacked canvases, And brushstrokes, flowing like typewriter ribbons or a film whose tape falls, from its projector, the projectionist stupidly amazed. I am entranced by moonlight sonatas--- Movements causing me to forget the world, its vulgar appearances, except that which is appetizing to the senses. I paint a picture, with the swing of my hands, in my lap, the windblown movements of the conductor, I capture, every sense of emotion. My fingertips hidden against the fabrics furrows, and my host self lost, in the eloquence, of the symphony… My inner soul is captivated, rich velveteen hues--- Floating in the creaminess of violin concertos, suspended, a remarkable blending of colors--- Composing, distinctive purples and blues as serenades, which cling to my hands as Winter’s frostbitten chill. Breathless swirls of harmony, melodies that fill me with a mental yoga, a inner peace laced seductively with tender strings. I am the rhythm, captivating this conductor---- To paint in a palatte of solemn monotones, emotions rebirth. Yet, when the masterpiece is finished, the sound is focused as an enflamed orb, clutched, in his hands. A steadfast union of art and music, where quarternote Footprints spatter against an imaginary canvas, Imagining symphonic Jackson Pollock. A gift in musical form, the siren embedded in instruments --- Waltzing up and down my spine, Tingling harps, windchimes, battling with the notes resonance. She speaks through the conductor’s fingers, vibrating profusely--- His harmonious creation, shooting forth from his baton, surrendering himself, to our desire. Intriguing whirlwinds, the revolving of planetary motion surrounding us every hour, minute, and second. The beauty overflows from me, in blossoming bursts--- Oils that morph, into tumors on our lips, etched in silence. We pour forth from a dream, where the conductors starched coattails swing in time, with the slinging bows of violins, cellos, and brass. The hair on his head brazen in a thin, gold metallic, tresses etched in stalagmite static. Upon the borne percussionist tapping his drum, I focus, with his body, maintaining stealthy charisma. My eyes widen at the skill, shivers descending my spine, Through every beat, the constant reverberating tap. I am transported in the many facets, the spectrum of color--- My body writhes, uncontrollable, as the bow in its musical waltz, while strings tip toe mercy, in their familiar rise and fall. The symphony floods the concert hall with ecstasy, As it turns violent, clash and clamor, In vibration, the physical world, my instruments. The brackish undertow of crashes--- the gale-force sting, sharpening in an eruption of ocean waves, that consume and spew forth all that it sees. It pours forth into audience, engulfing our senses, an apocalyptic magnitude that only surrealists could muster. Deforestation: Acres upon acres, wrinkled faces devour me--- The ground, an upturned, wicked sneer, with oppressive death. A volcanic eruption pushes forth, in my eyes, this reflection, inner creation of a symphony pulling forward---- I, the inner lust of music to composers, sleepless, In monumental thirst, Life’s mysteries stand attention to me, Like toy soldiers for eternal milliseconds.
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