Sacrament of Sound

I wrote this one for musicians in general because my world would be rather less colourful without them, but the final four lines were added a few days after the death of David Bowie on January 11, 2016, so this one is for him.

They are another species to us:

Gods, virtuosos of expression,

Beautiful people

Who exist in another universe

Briefly touching ours,

Like a hand trailing the water’s surface.

They vibrate on a different frequency

We know only as music;

Without realising entirely what they do,

We become possessed by the sound

Of their souls

And pay for it distilled in plastic.

A frozen moment for the fans

Ripped out of a magazine

Puts their immortal eyes on us,

Gives flesh to the voice,

Humanity to the magic.

They scream and croon their hearts out

For the strangers that they love,

Play snare and string and key

To connect their separate worlds,

And kneel stage side as if in prayer

To a god of their own

In a sacrament of sound.

Some live on until their status

Leaves them silver-haired;

Some are called back too soon,

But all leave their souls scattered on repeat.