I Hear Guitars A' Calling

I hear guitars a’ calling in the gloaming’s final fling when sinking suns subdue their flames and fairies take to 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 in the clouds within the skies, with tunes which trill like welling tears from somber misting eyes of misplaced muted homeless souls who drift alone in grief beneath the silence of the stars that offers no relief. I hear guitars a’ calling in the beat beneath her breast; their murmur throbs with passion’s pulse and sensuous unrest that rumbles deep in worried woods before impending storms and splits the air in morning meadows, ere the sunrise warms. I hear guitars a’ calling in the pitter-patter rain which summons with a soothing sound upon my window pane evoking bygone childhood dreams within a vagrant breeze engulfing me in gusty swirls down misty vortices. I hear guitars a’ calling in the waves on distant shores; they’re crashing out a monody upon the mystic oars of phantom ships within the dawn, like speckled caravels a’ sail on seas of raven wings to 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. I hear guitars a’ calling in the deserts of my mind; they’re nullifying hollow realms that time has left behind, where pathless sands are blazing hot, the sun is set to die and weary hounds are panting faint’, their tongues hung long and dry.