The Sirens

THE SIRENS

THEY CRY OUT IN WARNING

BUT WE IGNORE THEM

FOR WE KNOW WE ARE NOT IN ANY DANGER

THEIR WAILING CRESCENDO IS A MACABRE SONATA

A SYMPHONY OF PANIC IN A MAINTENANCE MASQUERADE

AND AS THEY BLARE IN DISCORDANT HARMONY

A SHRILL CHORUS OF FATE

WE SHIVER

UNABLE TO ESCAPE THE EERIE GRIP

OF OUR OWN MORTALITY

THEY PIERCE THE SILENCE

PIERCE OUR SOULS

LIKE DAGGERS INTO THE HEART

OF A DYSTOPIAN DREAM

AND YET WE SLEEP

ENTANGLED IN A FATEFUL SPELL

WE PERSIST IN OUR AMBIVALENCE

AS IF THE SIRENS' SONG IS BUT A MYTH

UNAWARE THAT THEIR NOTES

KNOW NOT THE DIFFERENCE

BETWEEN MAINTENANCE

AND DOOMSDAY

OUR ARROGANCE MOCKS THE INEVITABLE

BUT AS THE SYMPHONY CONCLUDES

WE ARE REMINDED

THAT ONE DAY

WE TOO SHALL FALL SILENT