Dorian Nightingale

how long?

don’t think it’s a mistake, not under control.
that the counter’s wrong,
                                   there’s an adjustment to make.
and mark my words,
             it’s not a case
of deadened air or wasted space.
just listen.

for this is the place where silence waits,
where silence thrives, the stillness patient.
                 holding its breath
to hear verses traversing the depths of salvation
for another transcendent downfall-in-the-making
          that takes me back to the wasteland of eden.

prepared to go through it, once again, my friend.
	how long must i wait till then?
how long? 
       when will the ticking ride cymbal call time?


and when the music reduces
           to that rallentando tempo,
you’ll start to speak softly
from the fathoms of the low tones.
a piano key oratory
	played slowly,
with that c major nine chord
below pianissimo.
a familiar note
               that let’s me know you’re still with me.  


for they convinced me i was so beautifully purposed,
 of such sublime symbiosis.
            and that the onus of my being
for one so young,
           was to master the thermals 
and move on.
that i had to harness these wings      
           i’d expressly been given.
        	these things
that’d been divinely supplied,
                           so benignly designed,
that would coerce my thoughts
to enforce a course to the sky from the earth.
and how airstreams would flow 
                          through my little, hollow body,
                 through embrittled bones so miniscule and tiny.
and by persistent, inconsistent fluttering wingbeat 
i’d be hoisted off the tips of my feet
                                             and i’d scruff myself aloft.
leaving for dust 
                            the fluff, mud-sticks and scuff -
the place i had known and the friendly warm.
for the cost of my flight,
            to be the best of my worth,
           			was my home.

Flights, Issue Eight, March 2023