Sunday, February 20, 2011

A Revolt Against Sleeping Sirens

As a sickle sickly sets itself,
Between fat and the shoulder,
A Butchers block prevents
The second sirens’ sentence shortened,

With Rhythm, rhyme, and cadence intact,
A sultry sash of epitaph,
Is bound to splice the diameter in half,
Singing sweet and wistful words tonight,
A seductive sonnet, a sweeping lullaby,

Clashing spirits disencumbered,
Alive the crimson flows asunder,
Risen tall, the barometer plummets
Below the point of somber bellow,
A writhing witch wields magic in her lips,
Wriggling ravaged fancies from tongues unknown,
Potions spoken blurred and bothered,
Reveals a cross-stitched tome bathed in silver,
Further dabbling in linguistic prowess
Unveils the shields, to which the Sirens owe their power,
For without, never a man would speak of the sinful voice,

Spewing softly prayers to angels,
The book awaits the scribe, the signer of entries soon to come

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