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The Nightingale
September 3, 2014
Constellations bloom, so vivid in the sky,
As the nightingale sings the lonely lullaby.
A melody so haunting, had never graced the earth,
But now rings out crying, unsure of its worth.
The nightingale falters, flying far too low,
Catching the light of morning as summer starts to snow.
As the sun starts to fall, the snowy blizzard stands,
Raining down its fury, on both nightingale and man.
The nightingale lands, desperate and alone,
And wonders why he's ventured so far away from home.
The little bird whispers, his only melody, calling out the darkness,
The demons seem to leave.
A poet in his nature, a bard called by his heart,
He fuses words around him, to leave to time and hearth.
In binding breath, so close to death, he looks up past the stars.
Where madmen whisper, oh so swifter, hushened tones of awe.
Through the fray, to light of day, the nightingale goes.
"Am I mad he whispers?" Expecting her to know.
© Alice B., Sarasota, FL
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