I Hear Guitars a' Calling
I hear guitars a’ calling in the gloaming’s final fling
when sinking suns subdue their flames for fairies on the wing,
as day departs, a yawning ash beneath a dusky haze,
igniting one by one the jewels of midnight’s diamond blaze.
I hear guitars a’ calling from the clouds within the skies,
with tunes which flow as purple drops from sombre misting eyes
of misplaced muted homeless souls who roam alone in grief
beneath the vastness of the stars while trembling like a leaf.
I hear guitars a’ calling in the gentle splashing rain
which summons with a soothing purr upon my window pane
evoking vivid childhood dreams within a vagrant breeze
entwining me in cryptic webs of misty vortices.
I hear guitars a’ calling from the waves on distant shores;
they’re crashing out a monody upon the mystic oars
of phantom ships before the dawn, like spectral caravels,
a’ sail on seas of raven wings from moonlit citadels.
I hear guitars a’ calling in the morning’s reveilles;
they’re pouring fires in the skies and burning up the seas,
while waking flowers in the fields and setting trees ablaze,
and closing one by one the eyes of midnight’s starry gaze.
Terry O’Leary defines himself as "A physicist lacking gravity...".