I'm a thousand miles away from home.
The orchestra is playing in the very near distance.
It's a private show.
My senses are alive as the sounds wash over my very soul.
The guitar. The melodious chords seducing my eardrums.
The bass. The drum. The rise and fall...beating to the rhythm of my heavy heart.
The harp. The instrument of angels.
Lifting me off my feet. I'm as one with wings. A celestial being.
The clang of the cymbals. Goose pimples. The hair on my back stand in ovation.
The cello. The trumpet. The violin. Each distinct sound blending into one beautiful symphony.
I'm in a gallery.
Somewhere on Despair Street
It's a private show.
But something is missing.
The canvas is empty.
The artist is set to paint but there are no brushes.
Then the unimaginable happens.
At the "twang" of the guitar, a purple streak appears.
The "bang" of the drum, a black splash.
The "hum" of the piano I see white.
There's Green. Blue. Yellow too.
Each instrument producing a colour of its own.
There's one for Joy.
One for Pain.
One for Pleasure and one for Redemption.
And as the Orchestra reaches a crescendo; As the final chord is strung, there's an explosion.
It's Hope. It's blood red.
It's everywhere.
On the walls and the floor.
On the door fame and my white tee.
Slowly I open my eyes.
I'm on my bed.
The orchestra has since stopped playing.
The gallery is but a distant memory.
The tears have since ceased.
I'm not alone.
I've got my music lifting me from the clutches of gloom;
Bringing me the sweet assurance of Hope that runs as sure as blood through my veins.
