Ode to a Siren
Can you not be what you made me to see?
My siren song of woven poesy—
Sealing my choice on your brand with a roar—
Am I right, or have you blinded my core?
You are my mountains, my rivers, my hills.
Why, then, indictment after your cheap thrills?
Honeyed lips lie behind lipstick and paint;
My verdure, my air, my people you taint.
Your essence of playful epiphanies,
Perfect, filtered, adjusted sanctities,
Are the dreads of death in the heart of hearths—
A cavernous gloom of illusive arts.
And upon that stand, blow the Judas Kiss:
If repentance fails, who would be your tryst?
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