Terpsichore

Even the clouds have ears
when she plays,
music pouring out in an
unending stream of auditory stimulation.
Her breasts rising and falling
to the pulse of an ancient chord.

Heavenly, it calls
in notes almost too pure to hear
then sinks in hellish
scrapes across the senses
to set the flesh tingling
with life.

Arpeggios fling themselves
across strings wound
too tight to hold a single note,
a crescendo fit to
bridge the oceans
and reclaim Gaia’s heart.

Even the clouds have ears
when she plays.
Silence is simply a short rest
in the orchestrated symphony
that her body allows
creation.