I heard a common nightingale

sing a melody through the night.

I sat down on a stone garden bench

to hearken the winsome song.

Ahead of me stood a dying willow tree,

embraced by despondent stars. 

The moon cries for me–

another fabricated desperation

of something that will never be mine.

A staircase to heaven overlooked, 

to listen to the nightingale’s melody—

going unnoticed by the songbird deity.

My lips iced,

a dark sapphire blue,

from nothing but frozen time. 

The mountain’s cave,

when the snow thaws.

A reflection of nothing,

from a mirror contrived by everything.

Absent by morning,

another distant melody of a common nightingale.