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Rated: 13+ · Poetry · Spiritual · #2259102
A different approach perhaps.
He stood in an alley, in a suit that might have been worn by Sidney Stratton,
or Michael Jackson. Unconsciously, he struck a pose, and pursing his lips,
whistled softly. And they came. Those travelling home from nightclubs; cycling to work,
an early start; or walking the streets. They came to the passageway, and worshipped.
Fell to their knees, faces filled with awe, and gave homage to the Whistling God.
The narrow gap between faceless office blocks, was bathed in a soft light.
The coruscate aura of their deity, shone brightly upon the faces of the congregation.
Two were chosen, to be Priest and Priestess, and were allocated ad-hoc rites.
Recipients of his whistled breath, His tune was instilled in their very souls.
Moving among the assembled bodies, whistling softly, hand cupped over ears,
propagating the aural blessing. Tears of joy and relief, arms raised in adoration,
their hearts warmed and cleansed. One by one they transcended their mundanity.
The Whistling God adopted a pose of benediction, and took up a new tune.
His form shimmered and vibrated, and He was gone.
The site of His presence marked now with a Chaladni form of exquisite delicacy.
His disciples drifted away, each whistling, exultantly, the harmony of their heart.
Spreading the love that would change their world unimaginably.
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