The Rhythm of a Thousand Armies

On purple ceilings, we dance to the rhythm of a thousand armies. We twirl with the shots, stomp at the falls, and duck when the enemy advances. Smiles litter the dance floor, but the destruction is at our windows. The music cannot be heard over screams, but it is still music, still sound. Majestic balls contain blood, and power is walking on graves. The chandeliers threaten to fall with the motions. They dangle, shining, glittering, horrifying. The theme was crimson trouble. Skirts and dresses skate across the vicinity in their red glory. At the chorus, the halls yell victory. Ballads of violence enhance the experience. Someone stops dancing. In an abrupt move, she is pushed to the ground. Through the constant movement of the party, she is trampled and obstructed from view. Soldiers insert themselves through the windows, yelling, "Man down!" glass scattering around the room. The stained glass of royals falls victim to humanity. Within seconds, all soldiers disappear. Liquid hits ankles, dark and bright, wet and dry, staining the beautiful heels. Laughter erupts with the faint glitching music. The record player repeats the same tune. Again. Again. Again. A couple kisses in the middle of the grand room, standing on broken bodies. The crowd cheers over war. The image distorts.

From above, the chandelier plummets to the floor. The couple lays on the ground, lifeless. Everyone stops. A metronome engulfs the silence. The ticks resemble footsteps. Then, it resembles individual screams. Then, it only resembles the broken record player, singing a song to no one. It's still sound, still music.

Lights flicker with the absence of life. Bodies are strewn about, but they're only corpses. The battlefield rumbles outside, but it's only war. Rain begins to pour, but it's only water.

The ballroom is clean, tidy. There is no liquid but punch. The stained-glass windows depict a picture of conflict, of power, of war. The chandeliers are covered in red glitter. The floor is shiny; the room is decorated. Streamers of a lost song fly above. The guests begin to enter.

Each monster arrives in the most elegant attire known to man. An explosion of colors come in through the door. Belts of intestines, heads of fur, lace of tendons. The dresses and skirts are spotted with the newest fashion: red polka dots towards the bottom. Only the finest can afford the ruby red slippers. They adorn themselves in scarlet splatter tattoos. They dream of the past, wish to be in the midst of pure chaos. The music starts. They dance--No, they glide.

In innocent bliss, young and old alike glide across the dance floor. They twirl when shots spill past their lips, stomp when the beat falls, and duck when someone says to limbo. The ballroom resists destruction as uneven beats fill the air. Eyebrows quirk on grinning faces. They are safe.

Through the windows, the individuals only see themselves as they touch up their makeup and pose with war heroes. The beating gets louder, angrier. The announcer gets sweaty hands and decides to turn up the music.

The bodies outside the one-way mirrors shout at the tops of their lungs. They bang on the windows, unsure if anyone sees them. The field below is filled with firearms. It's filled with bloodshed. It's filled with unimaginable damage. A soldier gives up beating the windows. He falls, unconscious, and his shirt falls up to reveal an opened stomach and chest filled with holes. A soldier sits by him, placing weeds on his corpse. Flowers don't grow where there is metal more than grass.

The dancing mortals own their immortality, surrounded by glass and red and beauty. The hearts beat to the music.

The humans dying own their mortality, surrounded by bullets and bloodshed and collision. The hearts beat to guns and feet.

The soldiers formerly crawling on the ground have the black on their cloth and body to mourn before they are fated the same death.

The demons spin with each other, more alike to ornaments than people. They like the color red, but they have no use for using their hands to properly make the natural color. They simply use others' hands. The capes swirl with them, sewn of tattered cloth from the battlefield below. They could swear the ceiling swirled with them. They could swear the Earth spun with them. They could swear the battles danced with them.

The theme was victory. They held no hand in victory. The only hands of victory are those in the ground and lost from their families and never-to-be found. The only hands of victory are those whose hands are all they have left.

On purple ceilings, they dance to the rhythm of a thousand armies. The music is all that can be heard over laughing and dancing. It involves birds chirping in the same breath that it includes screams, laughing in the same breath as dying, living and falling. But it is still sound, still music.

Magnificent dances contain beauty, and there is nothing more beautiful than life. The world threatens to melt at their fingertips, but it is freezing. Ballads of death enhance the experience. Maybe in another life, this nightmare could be different, but hope is hard to come by.

By any other name, death is the only reason for life. In any other life, by any other name, war is still war. Adrenaline pumps through the veins whose sole purpose is to move. To dance.

These veins burst. These hearts beat out of chests. These legs run from the body. These arms grasp each other. These heads fall off of the edge of the Earth.

These birds chirp at a battlefield. These guns blast at guilty humanities the same way they shoot at innocents. These screams are off key, these men shouting in broken words. These bodies lie still. This blood still pours. This rain still pours.

The enemy advances. The enemy still advances. They yell victory, but the enemy still advances. Innocents kill innocents for being guilty of being from somewhere else.

But it's still sound. Still music.

What is music?