Spilled Ink from the Vault

A loss of idiomatic nuance;
do you indeed shine upon men,
a beneficent demigoddess of prophecy,
or do you instead shine over them,
your glow falling upon them
as contemptuous glances, that still
they gobble, hungry seagulls
competing for a morsel of dropped chip,
but the beams that rest on me
(I am no man) are of warm desire
and I see why the god of poetry
chose you for a muse, but you
do not reject me as you once spurned him,
and I am granted privileged opportunity
to try my hand at strumming 
this rare instrument, my lips
pressed to the mouthpiece, to feel
and hear it respond to my embouchure 
as I’d hoped. Symphonic. 
And though the melody fades with time,
echoes dampened by distance, I know
this tune will live in memory for me,
if not for you. Sweet harmony.