The past is a siren's song that
Lulls me toward the rocky coast
Of corrupted promises.
The future is a fever dream that
Hurls me from my bed, down the stairs
And out the door to worship
In darkness.
The present is the woman who lies beside me,
Whose touch is the balm that calms
My fever, who joins the chorus of the sirens,
In harmony with my past.
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