You read about the Pillars of Creation
a place where a star is born
in a magazine next to the PlayStation
on your son’s bedroom floor ― amongst torn
Notelets and tangled headphones and chord.
The tinny sound of an old Verve song,
… don’t sound like no sonnet, My Lord.
The view from your son’s window ― long
sky ashen-white, trees spider webbed and stark
a blank canvass, days dull and lifeless
strength sapped, hurtling towards the same dark
the same hum drum of the keyboard’s caress
the monotonous screen, a little white lie ―
his heart beating fast, as he writes across the sky.