Keats has nothing on this garden
darkling.
My once bright eyes now blind—
in flame from a tinder
spill of kindling.
Unseeing of his savior the Nightingale
object of his forlorn and pleading mind
my heart remains deflated and frail
empty of the song
through leaves, I cannot find.
He managed envy of the dryad’s happy lot.
At least he could envision happiness
whereas I cannot.
Resigned to tumble and fail
in my deafened songlessness
searching for his
immortal
Nightingale.
In this drowsy orchard dark
I await the sun in vain
to reveal its noonday arc
and shake from
my heart
this fruitless stain
that has left its
binding mark.
_______
(c) 2013