|
|
The Siren's LamentBy Sandra Tayler
I sing my song because I must.
I am enspelled by the tales. They weave a fabric of belief so strong that I cannot do otherwise than sing men to their doom.
I weep for the deaths.
Why can men not stay with me, end my loneliness? But they are driven to death, just as I am driven to lure.
The stories people believe create reality, even more so for we who live on the edges.
Once,
just once,
I had a hope.
A young writer of stories spoke with me. He promised to write me a new tale. I loved him for that. He was to be my savior.
In long hours we spoke between kisses, weaving a strong new story, one in which I was no longer bound to kill.
He was not handsome, this maker of stories, but his words, they were strong and sure like knives. I knew his words would cut me free.
Then it came time for him to go. His story could not be believed unless it was heard.
My fingers,
twined gently in his hair,
unwillingly became an unyielding grip.
He gasped with the pain of it. I stopped the gasp with my kiss as I pulled both of us into the water.
I like to believe that he understood that what I did was not what I wanted. I sometimes imagine that with his last look he forgave me. But I do not know, will never know.
I strived to let him go, I could not.
My existence is bound by stories, and all stories of me end in death. To hear me is to perish.
He heard me.
He loved me.
He was going to free me.
And I held him tight and watched him die.
Copyright 2005 Sandra Tayler All Rights Reserved |
| |
