As I stand among the stars,

With knives of polished silver buried in my heels and toes.

I feel the magic around me,

The limitless air of the night,

Cold as it may be, it chokes me.

 

I let the sweat pour in beads down my neck,

My voice, clear as the caribbean sea,

Clear as winter wind,

My cheeks are incandescently rouged and tight,

I feel as if my physicality is beginning to leave me.

 

I feel nothing.

Only the waves of tantalizing emotion hovering in the air,

Pungent with passion,

As if awaiting something.

 

The dark, deep baroch,

 

The brash, soul clenching traditional,

 

The heart wrenching ballads.

 

The crescendos that  pull me upwards towards the light and glory of heaven,

and the decrescendos that draw me down to peaceful, dewy meadows below.

 

I feel as if i am a puppet held upon strings of silver,

Pulled to and fro,

By the brass might of Gabriel’s trumpet.

 

I am the embodiment of my craft,

I feel the swell and flow,

Like waves beckoning a storm.

 

I feel the light and the dark,

They tear through me,

A tsunami crashing into a rocky shore.

 

I feel it forcing its way out of me.

Like it is trapped in a delicate cage of costae verae,

Searching,

For a lighthouse upon the shore.

Forcing its way upwards and out of my mouth,

A songbird climbing out of it’s nest,

Into the everlasting expanse of the sky.

 

Not my captain,

But my vessel,

My dearest love,

My companion,

It pulls me through the deep dark waves,

Sends me towards crystal clear waters,

Keeps me safe against wind,

And the sharp, cold breathe of winter.

 

Flying on a dark mirror beneath the silver moon,

I sing.