"Musicians"

A Poem by PoeT4994

A piece I wrote for a contest. It's, obviously, about musicians...and a connection with God.

See, Stevie Wander wasn't blind.
He simply had God's vision.
He played the piano, but saw images of dreams.
His fingers danced like snakes on the keys.
Like snakes on the teeth of the piano, as it sung notes to the crowd.
His fingers cracked against joints snapping it's brittle bones.
Tearing the black ligaments that came every few keys.
Colors sprang like rainbows with every drop of rain poured on by his fingers.
Phantoms leaped like whispers into ears as drums beat to the taps of the snaps that thunder with each lightning bolt that struck it.
And see, Jimi wasn't crazy, or on drugs.
He saw the sounds of God.
His fingers lurched like dragons.
Skipping across strings, with fire and fairytales stumbling down the frets.
Martians flurried to UFO finger nails, and set out on a domination of guitar strings.
And every song he played now coats the surface of Pluto.
And everyone, Kurt Cobain's story is not a tragedy.
See you don't know, but the shotgun...it was loaded with roses.
He blasted gardens into his skull.
Soil littered dreams out of the back of his head.
Dreams flew like pidgeons onto his wall.
They stuttered brail onto his floors.
So even though he blew his eyeballs out, he could still follow his hopes.
Bradley Nowell, you may not know him.
He is part of the greatest band to ever live, Sublime.
He O.D.'d on heroine.
But, he did it to get to Garden Grove.
Love is what he had, and will always have.
Because, I know, he now sings Santeria with God.
He injected a little bit of Heaven into him that day.
And now, lyrics purch like birds a top his shoulder blades.
Dancing to their own beat.
And, Dj AM...we love you.
And I know, that like the rest, you are now remixing praise songs.
Pluck a feather from your wing, place it on your finger tip.
And with the lines of your future, scratch a little record we call life.
Your palms caress the turntables.
The tables turn like clouds, clouds in a hurricane.
That spin your life around in lyrics called inspiration.
Membranes pop like bass, brain cells grind like reggaeton.
Play that funky music white boy.
Play it forever, because I know...you did not die.
God, God has simply recruited you.
And you don't turn down an audition for a peaceful soul.