It's something different

Like a painting to a blind man.

Like a song to a deaf man.

Like the aroma of a fresh loaf to a man with no sense of smell.

Like a lover's kiss to a man with no sense of touch.

Like running to a paraplegic.

My magic sings. You wouldn't get the tricks of it. Feel it's harmony. And the beats of it's tune wouldn't corroborate with any rhythm you've heard before.

It's all a song to me. And I've learnt how to play a new instrument here.

In the cold autumn it hummed it's tune steadily to help me adjust.

In the chilly winter it played quietly in the background ambient to help me keep my body together.

But at night, Every night in the darkness, the strings put their bows to owns instrument.

The brass; lips to mouthpiece.

The woodwinds, prepare their fingerings.

The percussion, raises their mallets.

And finally, the piano player gently resting her finger tips against the first key.

Where there is no light, or it is dim enough. They play. Most of the time just for me. Sometimes to an audience.

A tune of very much like colour and sound.

Altering probability. Bending the possible. Boggling the mind.

Behold, this is my magic.