Outside my window a lonely soul sings,
Deep in vernal darkness with burdened heavy wings,
I can’t see him but I know he’s out there,
Although the night obscures him from my desperate stare,

He still sings proudly without a fool’s care,
And as I lay within wonder, in my empty bed,
I wonder if he’s as afraid as me,
As afraid of the night, as he spends it alone,
And sad like a flower, so woefully grown,
He sings alone so sure and patient,
Waiting for some answer,
And in the arms of sleep I wonder further,
If he wears a mask of actions like me,
Fending off sadness so fraudulently,
And he’s still singing,
Night after night I imagine his flight,
And I still don’t hear a response to his pleading song,
And imagine him questioning what he’s doing wrong,
This ritual becoming so poetically trite,
And these nights becoming farther and farther from right,

Outside my window the mockingbird sings,
Enshrouded in the melancholy the vernal darkness brings,
The night keeps our true selves a mystery unseen,
And as far away from ourselves and our loves as we ever have been.

~By Nick Sgandurra