Nightingale Time Poem by Bjorn Visser

Tick’ Tock the clock strikes twelve
a nightingale sings.
A treacherous heart releases painful gasps
a gluttonous hand grabs everything.
I stare with white lined eyes as you silently skip away
wondering if you are to return one day?

The heart stands still as my story is sung
a stage lit by you and your filth.
You have remained part of me, through a thousand years and more.
The nightingale no longer sings as my empty pockets fill with sympathy.
fathomless amounts of emotion bounce across a darkly lit stage
A once brilliant conductor, takes control of everything.

Naked and useless is what I have become
a clone of the former me, puppet strung.
“dance little puppet, dance to my song” the final words he whispers.
the clock strikes one, the nightingale; by far the most supreme of all
the god of birds, he takes control.
His flight is swift, like the skipping you I have grafted in my mind.

A minute passes, the years all fasten
clinging, reaching. breathing.
Drunk on the failures he has created through swift, pure movement of the hand.
The conductor, now -like me- a former brilliant mind.
Releases a final, sympathetic, useless rhyme.

Does it matter, the nightingale now lives perched upon my heart
clawing at my feelings. toying with your heart.

Time flies past as the memories return, of me and them, of them and theirs.
Of you, you and your skipping.
Tick’ Tock the clock strikes twelve.
Its and hour past eleven