Listening to the Sirens
She told me that
every poem I ever wrote was about the Sea
the sound of the waves, the sun on the sand;
there's no one for Me to be.
I am so afraid
of the monster on the shore
who looks like a sun drenched angel
lounging on my wasted potential,
the person I buried in stone.
She shimmers, and I dull;
I run from thunderstorms while
she fights every piece of sky;
One of us draped in armor,
the other in silver-tipped arrows.
I refuse, I refuse.
All these mistakes
are craters on the moon,
my very existence is afterglow
from the birth of the universe.
I wear a broken crown made of Amber,
my Throne is a desk chair in a sea of brilliance.
But I don't want to see my
invincible lovers set in stone.
And if you listen very carefully,
in the witching hours of the night,
your ears pressed into the sea,
I hope you hear me scream:
"Let it be, Let it be, Let me be."