Roots under boots

On the clash of the passion and
things we have drowned in blithely
and going back to our roots and
the marching terror of the powerful;
And us, the wastrels; them, the ruiners.


Light, there was
a dim light; of the winter sun.
The identity thing
is best explained by
eggheads
But we have lost our own stories,
we have lost them, ripped to shreds
Our roots are under boots
we have lost our stories
Lost them happily
in others' beauties.

Led Zeppelin
and the Lamb of God
and others;
and the hardest shakers and mood lifters
And our local rock n' rollers,
note by note, play just like them,
and make up for the prevailing phlegm.
In our high school
many guitars came crawling,
flying in the skies filled
with screaming and howling,
moving in serpentine paths
of poverty and uncontrolled dreams
in every chords that we strummed
we started facing the sunbeams.

Light, let there be not,
but there it was;
those who bayed for more were outlaws.
And unfortunate it was,
the guitar became the first casualty
when we first looked into what really makes us
what we are.
Us and them, not anymore.


SECOND THOUGHTS
I had renamed this post from "An Ode to the Guitar", with a slight change in the theme. Can't help but too impulsive I am.