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Mel Holmes May 2012
seven years young, always sharing a still smile.
You find him decked out and drowning in choir robes, with
Golden curls placed gently on a hammered head.


This boy plays piano in a dead sanctuary
Following familial rule,
until he let it all go.

the boy began playing music unwritten,
off hymnal sheets
Harmonious melodies stream from dancing fingertips,
Intrinsically clearing the once-cloudy air with vivacious voodoo.

The boy’s fingers groove up and down the piano,
His touch graces ivory keys and
His foot performs a rhythmic pedal-pressing tango.
He calls the audience: everywhere, eyes ignite like flame:
A communal headturn towards the piano.

They need more.
They crave it.

All the sanctuary people rise from the seats,
Abandon their pews, they enclose this boy.
No means to scare him, they want to experience.
The audience turns their ears towards the piano’s emissions,  

Emanating from within

Inhaling soundwaves—
Intoxicatingly sweet.
They absorb his notes into every pore of their skin,
Fueling their bodies with musical nutrients.
Electric jolts flow right into the room’s extremities.
They let down their hair and begin to dance.

Until a brief noise, distinctive throat-clearing, came through the speakers;
Heads shifted to the podium, only to see their ticked-off pastor,
Smirking and waving sarcastically.

Discipline.

The congregation stumbled back to their seats.
The boy stopped playing.
Ending the enchantment, killing the sanctuary.

Air again filled with ‘God’s voice’
through the mouth of the speaker.

A speaker who just wanted attention.
The boy slipped out of the piano seat, out the church’s doors.

You want to chase after him, give him a ride
Where could the boy be going in the middle of the storm?



The pastor’s prodigal son.
ZenOfferings Dec 2020
Here all the choice that lay beforith

To eat thereof the tree of life an **** it as thy bask fatted in the glory of a newborn star

Or to abstain there frometh an look inside eternal black thusly with knowledge that your stomach's redeeming feast is but a headturn away

— The End —