Sunday, August 19

flight of the white phoenix

He looks, observes, never to be seen. He hears, listens, never to be heard. Music is not whimsical avocation. It is prerequisite. Obsession. Prayer. Consumed like the Light of Angels sent down from Heaven.

He knows.

He waits.

He is a fool.

A fool of many words, of many faces, lost in a crowd chasing oblivion. He prays. He seeks solitude. He seeks peace and serenity. He has no name. Just a conscience, woken up by the sounds of silence. It is his only companion, his only friend. Like a shadow in the light, it follows him everywhere. It guides him towards the right, towards the light, watching him, his every move, his every step, his every flaw. It reminds him that he can question nothing, that he must hold his peace.

They are good friends. I have seen them many a time, under The Holy Tree. They sit and talk under the rain. They are one. He seeks a blessed state in the Kingdom of God, in sinu Abraham. He sleeps under the silver moon, in the Garden of Eden. He drinks from the Holy River. He rides on the wings of the Great White Phoenix, waiting for oblivion to pass him by. He prays, and drifts away into the mystical horizon, never to be seen, or heard, again.