Sing Sweet Nightingale

A word, a thought, a sentence; all visible to no one, and not even known by me. There's nothing left, not one ounce of sincerity. Everything now, fake, made-up, an act. Playing a game of dress-up, locked in my own perception of what this storybook should be. Left on my hands and knees, singing as if I were the caged bird.
I just want out, even if only until the clock strikes twelve.
The glass has broken, no proof is left, the caged bird goes back to singing.


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