Listening to the Sirens

She told me that 

every poem I ever wrote was about the Sea 

the sound of the waves, the sun on the sand; 

there's no one for Me to be. 

I am so afraid 

of the monster on the shore 

who looks like a sun drenched angel

lounging on my wasted potential,

the person I buried in stone.

She shimmers, and I dull;

I run from thunderstorms while

she fights every piece of sky;

One of us draped in armor,

the other in silver-tipped arrows.

I refuse, I refuse. 

All these mistakes

are craters on the moon,

my very existence is afterglow

from the birth of the universe. 

I wear a broken crown made of Amber,

my Throne is a desk chair in a sea of brilliance.

 But I don't want to see my

invincible lovers set in stone. 

And if you listen very carefully,

in the witching hours of the night,

your ears pressed into the sea, 

I hope you hear me scream: 

"Let it be, Let it be, Let me be."