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.
        
        

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(c) 2013