The one that lured me, was it sirens, perchance?
Their mutters were angelic, but I'd never listen.
From sea shanties, they've been seen as ships were sinkin'.
Phantasy they made me believe, I'd never dance.
One moment, their voices I ignored, then I was hauled
By their voices that were ineffable, promised me my muse.
Their whispers intensified dragging me in a water that's cold.
I was weak, forgot my own truce.
A manic fever dream was where they took my soul
Sirens were not clothed before my eyes.
I stabbed their heart and their blood is black as coal
A reality that was built based on a lie.
The reverie that sirens of the west painted
Covered in ink that the winds gave me.
Tapestry was made that is stained
By my muse's soul, the wind of faith.
YOU ARE READING
The Ballads Of The Wordsmith For His Poet
PoetryExaltation given by the muses of this Poet's sublime. As this poet escape the asylum he's been trapped, he'd find glory into writing epics and ballads. As the wind chimes, a knock of desperation escapes his everlasting pain.
