Keeping The Beat
As the prison gate closed behind him, he saw someone waiting for him and he became a child again. It was music who waited on the other side of the prison gate, and music loved him and it beckoned him ravenously to dream. But prison had startled him, scrutinizing his capacity of inquiry, coaxing doubt out of him. He was not a soul any more, nor was he a violin. He was but a shadow of his joyful self, the one who danced in the cry of crows and sang amidst their murder.
He sang to his hands and feet and head and body wishing them to become wings and feathers and meaning too. The song had come to him naturally; it had, once and for all, united his body parts. But Life found him guilty of enhanced weariness and he was cast in jail.
By the time he had walked back out through the gates, he had become a nail and he now nailed himself to conformity and he nailed himself to forgetfulness and let his limbs crucify him. His senses stubbornly refused to grant him a second chance. He fixed his gaze on every molecule of his leaving prison and entering prison and leaving prison and entering prison and leaving prison and entering prison and he kept a beat for the first time in his pinched life.
You have just read the series Midweek Pick-Me-Up. Always on Wednesdays. Always written to a prompt (in bold), in 5 minutes or else the screen goes blurry. An edit here, an edit there, and now it’s yours to share.