The Sad Siren

And she sits and glares across the crowded room,

Awaiting a man to catch her eye.

Her glass of wine is bottomless

For she knows no love extended,

Outside that of long dark hours. 

She knows she may not hold on

To the love she may earn each night.

Yet it is her drug;

To live anonymous;

Tapping her fingers on sticky beer stains

And seducing the eyes of those who look on

And she prays her cold glares may show that

What sits at home is a large cold bed

And the means by which to entertain. 

As the night wears thin,

And wine turns to cocktails,

Which in turn, become neats;

Desperation should not take hold. 

For with flips of her hair

And sighs hidden in foggy cups,

She shall resign herself to the fate of that night;

To the cool slide of sheets on her skin,

Yet uncaring in her strategic stupour. 


Alone she shall sit

Until the lines on her face

Don't rest as they did



She shall play on repeat

Her own siren song

Out of her high-end headphones

And the tigress of the night

Shall wear herself thin

And frail

In her knowingly hopeless plight. 

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