|
| |
The Postmortem
The morning breaks with chatter everywhere and dignitaries making speeches over the air, I have heard a familiar voice that I know and I was shock to know that she was part of the show. I have not seen or heard of her for twenty years and all of a sudden I heard that he was here, making speeches and selling books and teaching the multitude how to cook.
Children of paradise wakes up to the smell of sweet aroma floating in the atmosphere, children of paradise appetite burn for the taste of French croissants and coffee latte with fresh cream on top.
They gather in the early at the door with watery mouth and a hefty stomach and tickets in hand to collect their French breakfast; the smell of good food wakes up the city and a pleasant surprise originates from the heart of paradise and it made me breaks down and cry.
It is a kind of music that you never hear, it is the kind of music that you want to share; it make the audience scream and shout; it is the kind of music that makes your memory run about. The message is so deep and leaves you standing on your feet, crying out for more, when destiny confronts you at the door.
You have to say to yourself, “am I alive or dead?” And all of a sudden you find yourself in coroner's office; counting apples and peaches and rocking to a strange postmortem beat, where it came from, I don’t know, but it was baked into the show.
It is the moment that slips by in split seconds and you have to hold onto it and never forget it; it places you above the rest and teaches you something that you will never forget; it is the laughter that comes in between and the cries that disrupt your personal dreams.
Solidarity is everywhere and the rhythm spreads far and near; the vision was finally clear that the moon and the sun has something in common and if you dissect it and dig deeper you will find the relics of dolly the sheep buried in the deep.
The heart and the soul are one of a kind, and the time is drawing nigh and the notes and sound from the guitar are exploding in the skies, the sounds yawn in the deep and give birth to a new musical beat, it is the sound that you never hear before, it is the sound that pull you through the door, you have got to strip it down to the bone until you find where the good spirits roam.
Children of paradise wakes up to smell of sweet aroma floating in the sky, let the postmortem begin .
Copyright ©
Christine Phillips
|
|