Becoming a Violin

Just one look
Desire is a four-letter word
Touched before flesh touches flesh
Years of understanding in a kiss
A master craftsman moulded them together
There’s nowhere to hide emotions
They know each other too well
Feelings from the inside and the outside
The music becomes louder and louder
She becomes the arching
He moves like a bow
The smell of rosin fills the air
Broken horsehair everywhere

An odd weather day

Pockets of sunlight peep from between shy clouds, which sit rather highly in the afternoon sky.

The clouds lament that shyness is often mistaken for weakness as The Most lack certain insights.

To clarify, The Most, or the mob, are known by those sweet Greek thinkers of ancient times.

The Most think clouds lack the will to spill heavy rain and sweep quickly across the calm sky.

The sun knows The Most are full of bullshit, stinky cow dung, and sloshy old turnips.

The clouds laugh wildly at the sun’s phrasing, which gives them renewed resolve.

There’s a philosophical debate going down on high between the sun and the clouds.

Below, an angel stands still in sunlight and shadow feeling strange tingly sensations.

Sweet sensations overtake this heavingly light warrior, as the armour feels a bit too tight.

“The Most dare not believe in me”, the angel whispers to the clouds as they appear closer.

The sun retreats and the clouds darken,
as the rain bursts forth onto the dry old Earth.

The sun retreats for a nap and the angel
laughs loudly, as droplets touch worn skin.