Here Lies the Man

Here lies the man who lived a live without a plan. He ran the world via the seat of his pants and burned time with a dance. He lies here cold and still. His tale of his death shall make you ill, but you stand here just as I and you ask me why I cry. In this grave dug extra deep, lies the man who looks only as if he were sleep. Face calm and smooth as if he were lost in a dream even though his heart is more still than a frosted stream. How did he ever grow to be so cold death's boney fingers caressing him as he molds? How could one of such light heartedness meet an end such as this? By the light of his heart, and the taint in his soul, he fell for a siren. Her song strumming his strings oh so expertly, but with every song comes the inspiration for composition and his ensnared eyes were blinded to the darkness in every bleeding note. Oh, how she sang her siren song and oh how merrily he followed along. Unwittingly, he walked into the thick mire of her soul until he was swallowed whole. His pockets were sucked dry as he footed the baggage bills of a man long passed her by. Those dark notes now scaring his heart, each day making it harder for it to find a reason to start. Her tune grew darker, riddled with sharps, but he remained in an attempt to tune her warn heart-harp. Try and try again he did to win back his sullen siren, but his notes of affection could not pull her back from her island. Thus we return to the grave of a man who lived his without a plan right up until everything fell out of his hands. He died with his heart shattered to the winds and his soul vowing to never open again. What of his sullen siren? Why she lies silent upon her dark island. Storms whip at her shores with a violence that scares all who dare come near; she keeps everyone at bay with a thick layer of fear. Some say they here her mourning wails on the ends of gails others say they can hear her whispering at their tails, but whatever the truth maybe her anguish is plain for all to see. Ah, you ask how I know a tale of such melancholy, one that rivals that of star-crossed lovers in a far distance Italy Well the answer could not be more simple even if it had tried to be for that entrancing, sullen siren is me.