We made sense. It was dysfunctional, seemingly none rhythmic, thrown together in clashing movements of contorted, unashamedly complicated sound.
Like random sections of jazz beats, we borrowed our sound from rhyming melodies and spoke on without words. Our music, we danced to. Our music, we loved to, our music, we fought to but through it all, there was music.
We made war. The music picked up pace, words never spoken made way for newly formed sucker punches and the very real pain that followed amused not.
We made drama. Our movement became orchestrated; the conviction in our intent reeled off in perfectly choreographed steps. The sense in continuing though unclear to others was what kept us there as we pushed through the next stanza and rebirthed ourselves.
We made magic. The lights came on; we fused and separated into cosmic prisms as colourful rays of refraction deflected around us, hiding our intent. With distraction in place, we pulled rabbits out of hats and astonished others with marvellous trickery. On the most judgmental stage of them all, we performed around the rules, shifted expectations and redefined the purpose of illusionists. We made magic, and fooled us all.
We made conditions. Opened up ourselves for criticisms, never asking, never accepting.
We made resolutions. Never again would we place ourselves in ill formed shoes of others for the sole purpose of measuring our lives against their definition of order. No more would we question the aesthetic difference between us, and them. Our art is none that should be given up so freely.
We made passion. Served it up in a formula of tempted desires, rolled it around some of that first confusion and called it love. We thought ourselves all knowing on the only stage we believed to count.
We made desire. Wickedly tempting, a jewel of Jezebel was what we beheld ripped up and re-adorned some clothes and called her Jeziah.