An Ode to Muses to Melpomene

Greek Siren

You call me love.

That is a title I fear and dare not confess,

I wonder if you fear statements of devotion,

Or just enjoy my song.

You called me Angel.

If that is so,

You are my piece of heaven.

Spreading these wings has been my most daring quest.

I tie them down with sails

And stuff my mouth silent with plucked feathers.

These oversized rings are not made of gold,

But iron bathed in sapphire-laced lava.

I call myself sick,

While you declare beauty reigns in all goods broken

And stab yourself on each sin I clasp.

You fill this chalice with blood,

Calling it wine,

While asking me why I refuse intoxication.

You assume my eyes shine as the sunlight's gems,

When you never saw them in day's glory,

Lurking in shadowlands and nightmares.

I write letters, hidden in paper, bound in red ink.

Meanwhile, your thoughts wander the map of this storybook.

You called me an angel,

But do not see that my feathers have wilted

And that scales have stretched over my bones.

These bands were not rings, but handcuffs

And the hellfire belonged to my breath.

I am the guardian of Persephone and daughter of Calliope.

Monsters do not exist in my ancient, forked, tongue.

For I, am the guardian of all sailors damned.