it is free within the confines of my mind
i have long forgotten its song, yet somehow
I can still drum the rhythm as it
echoes against the cell bars of my skull

its throat groans - yet still no sound escapes
neither joy nor pain is exempted from
the blockage of stale unmoving air
and lukewarm blood

songs rot in its belly, dead music adorned
rot bellows its song, rough and uncouth
and most of all,

it climbs up the nightingale's mouth,
an air of forced silence
the death of inspiration