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.
