Siren.

The smile can be a sinister smelted sickle of sinew, swiftly turning on its side. A sideways sifted smirk that aims to smash the sirens that crash at its wake anew, washing ashore on waves and wafts carried by lack of willpower, willing to wane and wallow in seas that toss and turn in turmoil, only to trip them in triumph and turn the tables on Triton’s patriarchal trident, a spectacular seafaring showmanship of swift and sultry schemes so strictly strident.

But still, there is a baring on the bow where breasts belittle beggars and brats, bearing their names in bits and blots, blemishes to begotten and finally begone in droughts of the bereft.

No siren, no savior. No sensual behavior. No siren, no sin. No sympathetic look within. No siren, no snare. No cross to bare. No siren, no spirit. No one to fear it. No siren, no shame. And no one to blame.

But you.

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