Prophet of Arts

There is an old story that spoke about creation; how the gods of ancient times spun music the way a spider spins its web.

Weaving golden threads of light and sound, they formed the universe; sprinkling star dust across a vast canvas that was once pitch black.

Then they took a tiny part of their essence and breathed life into it; and their essence grew in multitudes.

The songs sung by the ancient gods soared across the Universe for they took delight in their creation. They did not cover the blackness entirely when they saw how darkness brought out the brilliance of their light; like jewels sparkling against black velvet.

But that was in the beginning; and much has happened since.

We will not speak of all that has come to pass; nothing stays the same… not even the songs that now hold this world together. Tears shed yesterday are like tranquilizers to an agitated heart pleading to be cut wide open; and once crystalized, they hang upon the walls of our memory to remind us we are alive.

There is light in you and I; in equal measure there is darkness that seem to overwhelm at times… yet it does not. Good and evil are for dogs and children, a friend told me once and I delighted in that phase for it made me laugh.

On nights when I cease to hear the beating of my heart; I listen to the Prophet of Art who is perched atop a single black rose. From light and sound, she weaves a melodic tapestry of songs about children much like you and I who were long abandoned by the gods.

I wish only to show you the invisible made visible for I can see what is hidden from the naked eye; I can imagine all the things that are written in the stars for that is where our secrets are kept.

In the darkness of the darkest night… in a trace-like state, I’ll see a jewel burning bright; a deity so imperfect in her own beauty, she rises above all else.

The beast was here all along…


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