by James Simmons
Exhausted as I was, the night should have passed quickly. But there it was, this music, building in the night. Slow, soulful sounds echoing through the blank sky, hauntingly calling as if the Angel of Death itself had sung. There could be no escaping.
Only sleep escaped existence. Anxiety caused the flesh to crawl, momentarily, until that moment when the shadows passed. The last shadows, remnants of a repugnant disposition, fleeing in haste to another dimension, witnessed for the final time.
The quiet shift, like stepping into a hot bath, full of relief, ensued as the melody emanated from every thought and emotion. A fragrant valley of fresh blooms thick with clouds of butterflies couldn’t be any more delightful.
No one will ever go back willingly to those fearsome times of previous eras. The gods have called us to be with them and so we grow to that day.
So it happened just as writ, when the last tormented person surrendered hatred.
The magic of the new era is begun.
Practicing presence and expression in different forms, James loves the melody of a well spoken line. His highest goal in writing is to foster a sense of play and wonder in all things. He is inspired by simple things, like nature, discovery, people, daydreams, and irony.