i'm no poet.
 
 but you are the nightingale in this bag of bones
you glide through these cables 
 past this bellowing drum of a heart
wings gently brush along the walls
 of this electric soul

i'm no less a man.

 but your voice it echoes
over the steady hum of the cables
 and you descend upon me
in the places i've forgotten
 to sing your heavenly discourse
for the rusty walls of this electric soul

 the hum of the cables dies to a whisper

i'm no fool.
 
 but i am listening...