i am the whip-poor-will

faded to brown, reds, and yellows,
the carpet floor frosty, fabled, and fallow;
stands sorrows last pink rose bloom.
in an ethereal murmuration of coming doom,
the nightjar cries in the dark, so begins the whip-poor-will.

turn east and fly towards tonight’s banquet,
a gathering omen collecting poor spirits,
the mockingbird’s first taught whistle it covets.
a cry in the dark night, of guarded prophecy to fulfill.
hear the far off haunting call of the last whip-poor-will. 

after first light comes a black sun, constant grows the songbird.
the fiddler played faster and faster, as his soul was captured.
ushering in the lingering coo of the first morning dove.
following the secret call, reuniting with his one true love,
a song so sound, forever bestowed, know i am the whip-poor-will.