Nightingales

Nightingales are the birds of poets

Moonbeams bleeding from their beaks

Tasteless harmony, sung sweet and hollow

Casting shadows in my mind.

The quiet song

From bushes and brambles,

Illuminating the endless evenings and sunrises

With their lovely calls.

Their wings spread like ivy,

Blotting women’s bosoms

And piercing men’s hearts

With thorn-like claws

And snowy black eyed puddles.

And the poets drown in them,

Consumed by their own dark innards,

Which once summered so sweetly,

But is now an echoed call from the past,

That only dreamer’s chase.