The beautiful heartbroken waif
patiently awaiting love to sail
again upon a lonely shore,
estranged from all songs but your own.
It would be too simple to resgin,
to assign a myth to such stories,
to be the homesick sailor no longer
guided by a cracked compass,
but the beacons pulsing from within.
Perhaps you’re really the siren,
the mythic embodiment of lust,
of every longing that turns men ravenous,
stripping you as your unique song enchants,
strikes chords that shake me to the bone
with some divine note imprinted onto
what some may call the soul.
Is that what you were all of this time?
The distant etheral muse to soothe,
to drive and vex me to no end,
to make a man transform from a serpent
into an unstoppable warrior and lover.
It would be too simple to resign,
to assign a myth to what’s made of flesh,
what’s bound beween a lens of gentle light
and darkness trembling at my touch.
Perhaps I’m nothing more than just a phase,
a mythic embodiment of every gentleman
that slowly courts and compliments
to hide the glint of a hungry beast.
The man that will strip you beyond clothing
right down to the spirit’s unnamed essence,
the unidentifiable chord quenched,
the divine fingerprints left upon
what some people believe is our very soul.
Is that what I have always really been?
The sailor shredding and splintering
a vulnerable vessel to reach true beauty,
the lush warm meadow promised,
the stars in your eyes radiating
along the endless, violent waters,
the plucked harp reverberating
its graceful and pained notes.
It would be too simple for us
to live on the cusp of myth,
to be caged between the lines
of a single unchanging story.
Perhaps we’re beyond the mythic now,
simply heartbroken men and women
that have no compass to read,
no divine song guiding our limbs
to finally meet and entangle.
Yet, I’m still human enough to follow
the beacon beautifully pulsing
from what some believe is the core,
what some believe may be the soul.
Perhaps that’s all I need to
find out what we really are.
