The King conjures melody through an electric storm.

"Sensual." Whisper the audience;
and they dance, carving paths into themselves,
arriving at the core of their humanity:
a clearing, a small space where the air is untainted.

Loss of the self, bliss.
Bliss via sound.

"Sensual melancholy." Whisper the artists;
observing from a distance:
No matter how close, no matter how delicate their touch,
each time they pick up a brush, they will dip it in your veins-
they will paint with your blood.

They will smile at a tragedy.

"Melancholy." Cries the boy- but silently,
like ghosts who stifle their cries
lest they scare away their only company.

How he wishes he could speak,
empty his lungs and heart of every sound, every cry.
His throat bleeds through the unstable screeching
and they dance.

They always dance.

"Melancholy. I am melancholy
and you will never cradle my broken heart;
you will never know my pain
for I will never speak of it.

Alas,
I am so very alone
and you- you who are so unaware-
you are my only company."

Cries the King.

Tonight he will die again- as he has so many times before-

and this is his threnody;

the screaming of his storm,
the cries they do not hear.