SIREN SONG

It would be fair to say that most anyone reading this has, at least once, found themselves clutching to—or perhaps been clutched by—circumstances promising them security and euphoria only to find their mouths lured, ensnared, and bloodied by way of the rusty and raw winter hook of trust and deceit borne of their love. Good faith carries with it a blind and unaccountable power when those in control freely blur the certainty of those trusting others who fumble, flail, and lose in the turbulent currents from which they sought rescue. So much for good or clarity. There is no taking such things lightly—whatever the context—especially in matters of the heart whose currency is valuated and governed by the gravity of the emotions that minted it. It is thus we find the arm of a desperate, drowning, and belittled soul (made even more so by the scale of the foreboding and desolate expanse that frames, engulfs, and accentuates their peril) wanting for the safety of a promised shore, reaching up to grab the robes of all they believed and trusted in to this—and beyond—this point. Above stands the cunning and beckoning spectre of our subject's doom, surrounded by candles of false lights (and false hopes) in the fashion of an accursed boudoir. As if to taunt karma and consequence themselves as a matter of adding an anchor of insult to her prey’s demise. And still, she stands with her eyes to the ocean in search of yet another victim breaching upon the shore, not quite satisfied with her most recent meal. Not knowing that she might be consumed by her own appetite.