Dr.Cross: The Nightingale's song

The nightingale cries on nights like this. It's beautiful, I would never deny it it's beauty, but it is fraught with a sorrow that man was never supposed to know. So soft. The nightingale's plaintive melody is so damn soft. Every night it sits outside my window, to sing to me, solemnly, mocking me. The bird sings my own tune to me. A tune that I carved into the world through my own iniquity, and it's so damn soft. I can hear it now, of course the nightingale is never far away, I can always hear it. It flutters, not the bird, the note. Suspended within the air, the shrill, pained note that shrieks it's message to the world. The message I wrote. I was a good man, by any standard. How cruel a god that would do this to me. I was saving lives! I was trying to save lives, and this is what I get. The note no longer flutters but falls, and the notes seem to form a river as they fall. They curve and they slow, all with the cold, smooth sorrow of the stream. The note steps up, a little eddie in the current, and falls again, falls indefinitely, a waterfall with no end. That is where the song is no longer mine, the fall. To be picked up by a man braver then I, for the note will never raise itself again. The poor little bird, doomed to sing my song. A song that the dawn will never lift, and joy will never save. My sorrow is eternal. So damned softly the bird sings, waiting for another man to pick up the torch and give the bird another note. Another man who is daring enough to play God, daring enough to do good. Sweet Alison the darkness cannot keep us apart much longer, but how can I willingly hand my self to such a cruel god as would leave me here. There is a third way, that I can see you, see our children, that abomination that holds me, that lives in me, feeds off me. Maybe it can bring you back, that which drove me too- My own hands. You died at my own hands, and I was forced to watch. Trapped inside my own body, unable to stop it. To play God once more, and bring you back to me. He cannot stop me, you are mine Alison, and Until I am dead I will deny him you. The note lifts once more, what false hope. Can you realize what you do nightingale?Such capacity for beauty, and all you bring to me is hate. You bring me this plaintive song, as if to speak of how you loathe me. My own existence must disgust creation, for I am simply an abomination. Perhaps, nightingale, you don't loathe me, you are simply like me, trapped inside your own body. Thinking nothing but love, leaving nothing but hate. Stay with me nightingale, for my work is not one of beauty.