Beneath the cliff's of the waking world,
Where shadows waltz on restless waves,
A siren hums, her voice unfurled,
Luring sailors to watery graves.
Her song is sweet, a velvet thread,
A promise stitched with silver lies.
She calls the lost, the frail, the fled,
With honeyed whispers, soft as sighs.
I found her shore on a moonless night,
My ship adrift, my compass spun.
Her light was cruel, her voice a blight,
Yet I swore her treasure would be won.
She set a fest of fleeting pleasures,
A banquet bright with poisoned glow.
Each bite a bloom, a fleeting measure,
Of warmth that vanished, leaving woe.
I stayed too long, I drank too deep,
Her tides became my only home.
Her waves would pull, her winds would weep,
And yet I feared the open foam.
Her song grew sharp, her beauty dimmed,
Her feast became a barren plain.
Yet still I bowed, my heart still hymned,
To her refrain, her aching chain.
I dream of shores unmarked by cries,
Of sunlit paths, of clean, still air.
Yet each attempt to sever ties
Finds me caught in her siren's snare.
But one day, perhaps, the tide will shift,
And I will rise a sailor free.
Her song will fade, her voice will drift,
And I'll find strength beneath the sea.
For even the strongest siren's spell
Must one day falter, one day wane.
And those who rise from her depths of hell
Will bear the scars but break the chain.
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