i am nightingale

it's just before the dawn, a day that lingers in expectation a little too long for this barely beating heart it's cadence slow, seems to stop but it's not. Instead it beats painfully long each rhythm needlepointed hammers pounding away as this once tender heart is pricked a million times and then pretends to become calloused. But shouldn't things hurt less with a tough exterior? or is this shell just slowly suffocating the life now locked inside? a nightingale tries to sing in the darkness before this never arriving dawn but the sadness of her silent soul seeps out in her breath when the song stops. falling to the silent ground perpetually falling in a cosmic thud a body beaten lifeless. But again, shouldn't this stop hurting after so much abuse? To die but here is the lie about death. Death is not a ceasing to hurt but rather the hurt just becomes deeper, a sustained whole note stretches beyond its 4 beat expectation. i am a wounded nightingale sitting in a tree. i saw you clinging to the branch next to me today. i want jesus to heal me, to heal you my friend. to take me down from this broken branch and cradle me in his gentle hand. this is my prayer. this is my song.