Silver-tongued and silver-winged,
This Siren circles round my head.
Her lullaby controls my dreams’ direction.
And though it makes me sweat to find
Her influence upon on my mind,
I cannot wake from her wretched perfection.

The visions which she grants
Are always consummately pure;
No sour taste to taint her sweet aggression.
She shows me images of bliss;
The perfect face and perfect kiss
Are both hallmarks of her wretched perfection.

Her dreams do not require sleep;
My waking mind is just as prone
To wandering in her gardens of obsession.
She shows me love in every smile,
She shows me lust in each denial.
She’s beautiful in her wretched perfection.

I draw her blood out with a pen,
Thinking to drain her all away,
But she gains strength when shown her own reflection.
I no longer know who
My written words appeal to
Save to her, in her wretched perfection.

She is not real, and never was.
She is effect: I am the cause.
She is my own over-romantic predilection.
We are the whole; there is no other.
And so, I steel myself to suffer
A lifetime dreaming her wretched perfection.

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