Beware The Siren Poem by Keith E. Sparks Jr.

Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead,
recall!

I too, have buried the dead
and seen the faces aptly avoided
by the living.

I have touched the pallid hand
weathered in a desert land
with and without misgivings.

And I have even heard
Alfred's sirens singing.

Venir l'amour, venir.

The drowned Phoenician Sailor said,
'Dare not ignore the honored dead!
The Cheshire grin upon my face
is a permanent mark of my disgrace.'

'Beware the siren's call! '

Alluring, beseeching.
A deceitful thing it was,
painted in white lies,
and much too lovely
to linger in.

Tant vous êtes jaloux de garder vos secrets!

But I do not fear the darkness, nor balk
at grinning demons haunting dusty halls
sweeping cobwebs with ragged brooms.

At spring mending-time
the gaps are always pondered
(as we swap lie for lie)
and one wonders how they came.
Yet no one ever knows.

It's four A.M.
I should be sleeping!
But I digress

and sojourn in the desert.
One decade more is all.
Perhaps then
I can rest.

So I wander through broken pillars;
somewhere I have already traveled,
vaguely familiar—remembered.
The siren's call combs the sands

while the unstrung Ovation streams melodies
to muffle the inevitable doom
avoided for a time.

Wandering deeper into a barren land,
further and further from a siren's hand.

The sun had set alone.
A grinning moon now casts doubt
in slanted shards of lunar light.

I’ve felt the curse of mortal man
throughout the somber day.
I wonder what the night may hold
to send the curse away.

But in salted skies, where
celestial entities thrive

mortals find no answers.
Unless they die.

And a parade of wind carries slings
and arrows upon its back. Deadly,
accurate—in earnest the siren sings.

Je suis belle, ô mortel!
Toujours tu chériras la mer,
Venir l'amour, venir.

Horizons shift, scents of brine assault
and white waves batter rocks below.
A desert replaced by desolate crags.
The siren's doing, I know.

But I do not fear the darkness
nor balk at a drowned sailor
strangled by seaweed
red and brown.
I do not fear the siren
-allurring, beseeching.
No, I do not believe I'll drown.

A final flight to the water below
caressed by a witch-maid's song.

Open arms await me
to immerse in the welcome chill
of the waters below.

Perhaps now
I can rest...