I’m called to waters edge but against sirens call, none of us stand a chance .
The dreamers they capture and keep. For them it’s all too easy to lull someone who is half asleep.
Pacified by the soft singing and inhuman beauty, the promise of something poetic lingers, and pleases when all else appears unappealing.
Monotony is maddening for the creative mind.
The sirens, they feed on this boredom, sniffing it out like a bloodhound in a great hunting expedition. Feeling the burn of the day before you close your eyes. They can sense your withering spirit, you cry for any suspense, or surprise.
While listening, I can hear the angelic voices. I want so badly to go, to walk into the cool water, but I know they’re not what they seem, and that I’m better off not stepping in.