A Siren’s Whisper 

Her chants carry
the breath of echoing centuries —
salt-sweet,
like the tide below.
She sings of calm.
She guards — and she wrecks.

She pulls you in,
won’t let you surface —
a lull wrapped tight
in ocean’s yearn.

You know her well —
a thunder in tales,
a glimmer in silence,
a voice that conquers.

You walk her path —
still wrapped in mercy —
but the sea is a mirror
that never keeps face.

Her spell —
like the twilight of seashells,
soft as sorrow,
sharp as flame.

She sings not to lure,
but to awaken —
a call to the lost,
the broken, the taken.

And when her voice fades
to foam on the sand —
you’re no longer yourself,
yet still understand.
She didn’t take —
she revealed, she named.
You followed her song —
and were never the same.

And still — you listen.