Waking up in the Den of Sirens,
where rivers no longer flow, and the air is
as sour and dead as the resin coat under Her fingernails,
you feel Life, creeping home to your body
as if you didn’t know it had gone out for the night.
The sweet stale odors of coffee and still burning tobacco
fill your lungs, enticing you, calling you back into Her web,
away from those bothersome thoughts of home and sanity,
and cauterizing your fear with the fire between Her lips…
…Waking up in the Den of Sorrow,
where voids are never filled, She consumes you
offering nothing in return but Her own emptiness; Her opiate.
you see Life, banging on the side door of your mind,
finally locked out after so much sneaking around.
The sickly ripe scents of beer and sweat sting your throat
And remind you of Life, sad and alone, left out in the cold.
But She soothes the pain of the living, numbing the senses until they surrender,
Prisoners to Her warmth forever…
…Waking up in the Den of the Dead,
where men are left to rot, and
Hope is smoldering in the ashtray before you,
you hear Life screaming your name, but is muffled by
years of ignorance, and the excuses She whispered in your ear.