Twilight anchors subtle strokes on the guitar.
Rhythmically soft plucking of each finger resonates among the stars.
I gasp at a true orchestra of gods,
Who reign over sleepless neighbors,
Content in their dwellings,
Never once appreciative the timeless symphony,
Our Earth Mothers beseeching whisper.
I try to play along with her,
But congested cackling of metropolitan madmen,
So brazen is their yelping.
Spoiled children crying for attention,
Unable to hear her song over obsessive commotions,
At all hours of their borrowed lives.
Yet she plays on,
As if thanking us for her inevitable demise,
At the hands of her most beloved child.
I suppose we can do no wrong in Mothers eyes.