Coming through the fine mist

We were greeted

By all the kings and queens of feeling;

The deities of sounds;

The great musicians;

Some dead, some living;

Some old, some young;

Clad in bright garb, neon and reflective
of the sun’s glassy rays;

All of them gliding effusively about 

Between the glittering towers

And above the stark streets, snaking below like serpentine streamers

Supporting the weight of a million
automobiles

And a trillion austere faces.

And all of the singers flew

Supported by their whimsical kites,

Buoyed by great fans, or jets, or rockets

That roared and rasped, coughing clouds of 

Smothering dust;

They flew for love;

The love of love;

And smiled, revealing their organizer;

My cherished princess, My love;

Who looked, for a brief moment, deep into my eyes with those glimmering emeralds,

A wistful visage wearing,

Before moving up.

And the singers followed,

One and all,

Gleefully spiraling

Like mad birds

High into the sky,

To reach the heavens

And begin their new life

Alone with the wind.