Words are the sirens.
They beckon call seduce
Evoke inspire lead.
But then what?

Tools of their creators
That also mater them
For a time.
They can create, strengthen, support, and lead
And as easily, bewitch, betray, and mislead
Even the strongest.

How does sone know, much less love
In the woprld of language?
How does one see, touch, hear, or smell
Through the blackness of print?
Is anything there?
Is nothing real?

No stars to guide
No path of light
No clarity of vision
No limits, no rules
No neeed, no consequence
No breath no blood.
Distance without perspective
Pictures without frames
Horizons without limits
Embraces of nothing
Cold cruel comfort.

Death from the call of the siren may be quick or slow
Languorous and erotic, perhaps,
But mean physical harsh as life when it comes.
Illusion drream and myth recede
To await the real dawn.