Like the pile of ashes, and
Cigarette butts, half smoked,
burned down to the filter,
or lying, lazily limping
down the cobblestone steps
textured, like the pile of ashes
gathering on your lap, with the reminder
of all the curvaceous stones
that you've danced across the river only to allow them
To sink and drown,
That is, until some benevolent tide
tarrying for the savior of sunken
stones

The inevitability of it all frightens me, that is
For the sake of the sirens whose
Dominion could never be slave to the
Sailors alone, as you, the aforementioned exploiter
of the rotundity of stones
Would find contentment in the tide alone,
but instead ventured deeper into the
hearts of men only to find that the
Base nature of an organic quality
might only entertain
the sounded song of the
Siren for so long until,
desiring anew they should drown
them for the scent of some unseen plaything
sensed to be approaching the horizon.

Presumed as dead, while you nod off to
Sleep, knees pulled tight to your chest,
No acknowledgement of the water slowly
and surely growing colder as if some
Scythe was reaping the rain from the
Clouds, God forbid the
Saline fuel for sorrow
be drained at last from its source,
desperately, as if compelled by
some unfamiliar amorous friend,
you longingly awake.