She’s perched upon a chandelier, humming softly to herself-
Nightingale; the song is sweet, reminiscent of honey,
And days where the slightly bitter taste of clover
Drifts in the breeze. Her own shadow, from the
Light of the three hundred and sixty six
Candles casts her shadow against the
Moon, whose own light casts her,
Back again; this spell flutters
Down, down to a straw
Covered floor. Two
Shadows, and in
Doppelganger
Lower I
Stand.
Her,
In the
Other. A
Silhouette of
Delicate beauty,
Wings folded under,
And what tremendous
Fortitude slumbers within!
A thousand Lions could not
Hold a feather to such mettle.
No, the lady of the Nightingale
Song is clad only in her brilliance,
So far away.  Yet, through shadow-
Through virtue of nothing but the moon
And the midnight oil, we are linked. And as
I blink sleepily and gaze upwards, no chained
Metallic cage sways in my vision of you, for you
Sit on the moon, your lilting laughter regaling at my
Baffled mien.  I lower my eyes to my palm; there perches
The Nightingale, without whom I could not truly find solitude.