When the sirens sing their hollow song

 I miss an older time 

When sex wasn’t drowning or suffocating 

It was young and innocent and sweet 

Not the burning of salt going down ur throat 

and filling ur lungs 

Filling the emptiness 

Dragging you 

Down 

Down 

Down 

Love was a sand castle, 

Fragile, but high up on the safety 

of the dunes away from the crushing waves. 

Now it’s hungry and vicious   

Lulled over by a siren’s sweet song 

and sweet nothings

Love was soft, like warm dry sand that you 

would pick up and let fall and blow away in the wind

Not the harsh sea bottom of angry rocks 

and creatures lurking in the dark 

And yet we still succumb to the siren's song as it drags us down.

It fills something, it’s an addiction, hot and angry, hungry. 

But after, we’re not always satisfied,

we long for more, for a warmer connection, even when

we are left gasping for air as cold waves crash

over us as we crawl out from the surf. 

I miss a time when sex was more than lust,

when it was love. 

Perhaps it is not the siren’s fault, but the culture of the sea men

that have demanded her to act in such a way, 

centuries old mythology chiselling her role in stone

Perhaps we are not to be blamed in a world 

Where longing seeks what truth forsook,

In guilty glances and quiet nooks

In bathroom stalls and backroom bars

We are stuck in this refrain like the sirens

who are forced to sing their song. 

Where a screech is not a lure of deceit 

but a cry for help that we all seek