Heights

A mandala forms behind my closed eyes of

Warm, deep honey bass licking at my eyeballs,

Clear, sky-blue tendrils of the high harmonies wrapping around each hair

Sun-yellow, bright melodies, braided with deep brown harmonies

Wefting the fabric of my soul

Cobalt beads of drum punctuating each pore

Black, glistening dust of a high-hat settling into the wrinkles of my face

Felted, soft mats of rhythm on which it all rests

Round and round, a circle forms

Drawning me into myself

The music no longer separate from myself but

Part of me

Part of us

A glimpse into the infinity of sound

The weight of it

The softening at the edges of reality

Blurring the sharpness of life with the softness of sound

Floating

Gentle.