A nightingale laments
For the unresponsive rose,
While moths flock
To the candle flame,
Only to burn themselves.
Drowning my sorrow
Of life’s never-ending quest
In a bucket of chocolate ice cream,
I stare at the candle’s wick,
& become the yellow flame.
Withdrawing myself from myself,
Now orange, now yellow, now blue,
I flicker like the three-colored flame,
& melt slowly.
Sinking into my sofa
I write odes in the candlelight—
To my secrets,
To my fantasies,
To the old buckets of ice cream,
& to the lovelorn lovers.
All the while the nightingale sings
Inside my head in quick, rapid beats—
& the singing keeps going on & on—
Only to be silenced towards
The end of the poem.