Wrecked

Siren songs, silent sons,

Lay down your arms,

At the threat of a throttled throat,

Yield your gift to me.

Prepare to end your gentle reign,

a violence meted out through velvet lips,

Piled high are the sorry souls,

wrecked on the rocks of your jagged shore.

Be merciful, you who know so little of it.

Beguiling in persistence,

what attrition suffered,

The pain received and paid for,

In the ultimate shock horror, you smiled at me.

Retract your hooked talons,

Of razord loveliness,

that have ravaged a once proud, puffed out chest.

Give back your bountiful loot,

Taken at the point of your seductive sword,

Swung not in anger,

but in playful flight.

Recompense all who you swindled,

Every ear that dripped with your saccharine nectar,

A sweet concoct of words too good to be true.

Tell them all, life’s great jury,

How you enticed them to commit their crimes,

Done in the heavy sultry thunder cloud of your company.

Weather witch

composer of storms,

Storms for souls,

Tempestuous whirls,

that spin the mind

Inducing vertigo

a sickness that ravages

without surrender.

But to give back for you is madness,

Pity is for the weak

More so, we measly meek.

So I’ll live with the damage

plaster over it

Rue the day I heard the siren’s call.

The worst of it,

 the shameful trauma,

 hidden knowledge

 heavy burden, I forever carry.

The song was loved,

And stands eternally,

Forever

the sweetest tune.