For me, it is the minor key perhaps
solitary cello, hollowed by grief
an oboe’s piercing candor, sorrow’s thief
echoing my heart’s melancholy maps.
For him, a thickness, tense with anguished strings
gnawed voices interwoven, dense with brass
flute’s watery hysteria floats past
on somber seas of agony it sings.
As for my little boy, he begs of me
pleads for a rough song, mommy, raucous drums
I feel rough inside, he says, and so
guitar’s rebellious twang, so let it be.
Something to fight against, an urge that comes
from deep within, believe me child, I know.
