-Kelon Williams
Under the warm sun, as the moisture from the ocean’s breath pacifies the hue of my skin, I swing ever so rhythmically like a Baroque era violin crescendo, of which I have yet to know.
Music has been my first love, when love was just a resonating hum from the throat of her that cradles me in her arms. How sweet that melody! That part of me the conductor’s wand ignites instantly; unconsciously, when perceiving the tune, I am in the the loom of that full scale womb.
I think that even the true voices of the Creator is at a tone so harmonious that the finite minds of our ethereal substance mixed in with the receptive pitch can’t contain that note. So, impurities shudder in fear of the perfection of that song. Speak, I whisper.
What is music to you is yours; yet mine is the flock of birds up above, whose wings sing a hymn that I am them. Or the way her hair glides across the ridges of her lips, finger tips at the hem; of the violin in Lisa Batiashivli’s arm, as the bow in her hand coaxes the strings. That’s a tune that resonates the state of my masculinity to respond towards the creativity and beauty upon which I see.
Music, a language unto its own. Disciples praise its matrimony when known. Like the crack of bone displaced from its home, or the scream that is the soliloquy from the dance where the monsters roam.
So, back under the warm sun, as the moisture is sapped from my skin and the two whole notes of my eyes start to rise, I come alive to the orchestra of life, the never-ending symphony flowing through me. I am music.