SIREN SONG
We nightingale slayers of
Centaurs
with soft, high, clear
lures for the ear,
hear the bittersweet
hydromel and gall.
We scent your ambition on
the air,
your thirst for knowledge
and approval,
the reassurance of our
harpy limbs –
Nothing could be easier,
though our appeal
is spirit more than flesh,
once you hear
to your heart’s fill, sail
on the wiser
or else go mad wondering.
We know all
that comes to pass on the
fecund earth
though what we promised
Odysseus
wasn’t the latest news on
the Trojan War.
Oh, were your soul only
large enough
to comprehend and love
life in every detail:
that your tiny particle of
excited mortality
steers the current of that
stream, gifting
and plundering, groping
blindly through
the labyrinth for axioms,
but all you really
want to hear is how much
our story
needs you as protagonist,
how only
you can solve our riddle
and
explain it to us.
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