Siren Whispers

Siren Song

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it is symbiotic

this need

giving and taking

letting desires unfurl naturally

without agenda or design

words left to linger in thoughts

accelerant to dreams

where lust is rough

and thorough

as he bends me over his desk

my dress bunched up around my waist

his hand upon the small of my back

I feel the press of the wood against my belly

and the press of him against my thighs

my body is on fire

every nerve ending alive and firing

there is tenderness

but in moments such as these

when need is raw and powerful

he shows me just how he craves me

what he can give me

and with it

how my body aches

for all that he is


Copyright © SirenSong1208

All rights reserved

Photograph taken from Tumblr, unsourced


Making sense


Why does everything have to make sense


Are we so impatient with time that we need to rush through life

at breakneck speed

blinders on

focused on the finish?

Can we not allow ourselves the time to savour the moments

some breathtaking

some painful

some soothing

and some that arouse every fiber of our being

reminding us what it means to be alive…

Are we just numb? Are we too cynical? Are we afraid?

Do we take for granted those blissful moments that colour memories with joy and passion?

Do we tell ourselves that it was just an illusion

and didn’t mean anything?

Does that help us sleep at night

content and smug in our keen sense of survival?

Why do we feel like we must discard anything that seems challenging?

Are we so afraid of risk and chance and the possibilities that we can’t yet see

that are still ahead of us

that we struggle with what we don’t know

and we give up

well before we should.

Are we unwilling to take those extra steps to see what lies around the next bend

what we might find waiting for us upon the horizon?

Why are we so afraid of letting life seduce us?

Why do we refuse to listen to the voice inside, the one that jumps up and down with happiness

when we find something sublime

and unexpected

but immediately question its validity

or our own worthiness.

Are we so afraid to be happy 

that we retreat

refusing to fight for what we need

what we deserve

what we want?

How does that make sense?


©SirenSong1208 ~ 2017

Photograph taken from Tumblr



Sweetened the bite

Lost light

drained slowly from her eyes

as over time


was dampened by indifference.

The sparkle

of her vivaciousness

and lust for life


with a purposeful glance.

Tender intent

and words

that sweetened the bite

of each day.


*Written in March for Instagram and Twitter prompt: MarchFalls

©SirenSong1208 ~ 2017

Photograph taken from Tumblr




He forms and fashions

neither ode nor sonnet

to intelligence, beauty, grace

but rather algorithms

that map her within his mind.

He looks at her from every angle

judging lines and curves

and all the space in between

deciphering her code

a chemical blueprint that electrifies

and intoxicates him.

Her formula,

one he never tires of experimenting with.


©SirenSong1208 2017

Photograph taken from Tumblr


Piercing me

My desire 

is as sharp as glass shards

piercing me

with longing.

With every jagged breath

I am cut anew.


©SirenSong1208 2017

Photograph taken from Tumblr


She is the ebb and flow of the sea


She is the ebb and flow of the sea.

Rushing in to invigorate

To arouse.

To make him feel alive

With the quickening of her surf

And again to recede

In gentleness.

Leaving behind reminders.

A constant in the background

Of his day.

Always just a touch away

But never intruding

Except when the swells build up

And passions rise

Threatening to overtake her.

It is then

That she shows him

Her true measure.


*Not new but simply, and currently, a truth.


Photograph taken from BlackSwanDive


A math equation


She is all curves and lines.

A math equation

he would love to painstakingly solve.

His fingers

constantly itch

to touch her.

To caress

her naked skin,

the satiny feel inducing him to do so.

Again and again.

To stroke

the softness of her lips

drawing a smile from her

in the process.

To cup

her bare breasts

the nipples hardening 

beneath his palms.

Until finally

he traces his finger

along the length

and curve

of her hips.

His calculation of her formula.




Photograph taken from Pinterest


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Midnight reveries


It is when moonlight arrives

and hours are reversed

that their midnight reveries merge

and take shape.

Sleep and dreams find her

tangled amid a sea of white

her mind reaching out to him

as her fingers touch his

through the ether

dawn lightening his eyes

just as hers close

in darkness.



Photograph taken from Pinterest

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Message in a bottle


Upon the great expanse of liquid divide

setting sail

solitary missives

rendered brave

in their endeavour.


In the first days

her verse spoke in tones


and yet,

not to him.

Cursive scrawl which read…

“He said compliments that come in a left & a right

a Shakespearean verse or 2

give light to my thoughts & desires

an earnest prising of you”


Hours became days.

The next fragile craft was set afloat.

“Sometimes my words drift along

waiting for your breath

your touch

the sweet ripple of your current flowing into mine”


Time moves as swiftly as the current

and as rapidly as her mind.

Her thoughts come quickly,


focused upon him.

Words take flight and arrange themselves thus…

“I speak to you

In one language


The one’s oft studied

Your hungry mind


This is the one

You will become fluent in”


She continues


and unchecked…

“Could you consider

That this is the thing

For you

The view aspired to

The touch hungered for

The mind that could sweetly battle with yours”


With each send off to the sea

she scans the horizon

watching the tide

waiting for her moment.

and then…

“Once more with feeling

setting her to music in his mind

finding her as unique as an accidental

he moves thru her melody

one note at a time”


The scroll carefully berthed within it’s harbour 

makes it’s undaunted attempt

upon choppy seas.

“She reaches out and touches only air

his warmth


in the whisper of her name

and the way that he called her



Every word becomes a way

to touch

to speak.

Every word she releases

becomes a message in a bottle.



Photograph taken from Tumblr