I am who whispers to the stars,
For the little stream,
I cried to replenish everything now down-wind.
Many saw me,
Playing sweet lyre, my fingers blue,
Under pale moon, my hair silver.
They all stood a ways away, watching,
All seemed lifeless statues, grey in the moonlight,
Solemn and austere, blue and unyielding.
The cold never seemed to bother them,
Standing there shell-shocked, eyes-locked,
Lo the wonder in their eyes.
I now slowly begin to enjoy myself.
'Twas easy to pluck the strings of their hearts,
I'd give them a gentle caress,
Then suddenly a catatonic strum.
But as it always turns out, I am the one truly shell-shocked.
It's just the way the indifference mingles with increasing fear,
As if this is all okay, but there is something wrong,
Something sneaky and dangerous,
And that their minds are nearing th'inevitable conclusion,
To near-see truth behind their mindless crave,
The truth of how beauty creates such awe,
And leaves them all in such dire, treacherous need.
4, March, 2015, by Z.Carter or MoonFirefly