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The Song of the SeaDo you hear the soft voice adrift at night,
as it slips through the darkness, enshrouded?
Tis the whisper of wings, of birds in flight,
as they soar through the skies, darkly clouded.
Do you hear the song beckoning, beckoning softly,
'cross the stormy seas and black, churning waves?
Tis the voice of the sirens, the song of the sea,
and dead sailors in their watery graves.
Do you hear the fierce rushing, the rapid, crisp flutters
of sails that have filled with swift breeze?
Tis the sound of the skeleton crew's mutinous mutters
as they man their ghost ship with skilled ease.
Tis a terrible truth that the beauty of the sea
is too often lost
on all but brave sailors,
and even then at great cost.
the time keeper*
she had always been my beautiful backwards girl.
looking back, I can recall so many things about her, things that set her apart and made her different, like the way she would sit in the rain for hours at a time and just listen to the sound of the world falling apart around her. I worried she'd get sick, but she always ignore my calls for her to come in.
she once told me there was no need to worry. she was already sick, she said. hadn't I realized? I laughed and forgot, only remembering when it was too late.
sometimes we'd lay in bed and I'd count her ribs and trace patterns over her skin. when I'd counted the final one, she'd always say she was trapped inside her own body, stuck in a cage built of her own bones. maybe I held the key to the cage, I suggested. no, she told me. no one did. I smiled and ghosted my fingertips over the delicate curve of her spine, blissfully unaware of the darkness that shadowed her eyes.
I walked through the door one day and saw her naked on the ti
she dreams of the seaThere's a girl who likes to write and her name's Annabelle Lee,
she'll sit at her typewriter and dream of the sea.
By the flickering light of her candle's glow,
and the beat of her heart-steady and slow-
she'll delve through her thoughts, her hopes, and her dreams,
'til her army of words bursts at the seams.
She writes of the waves and their silver tipped crests
and she speaks of the birds in their seaweed-green nests.
The moonlight reflects in the roiling black waves
as the birds flutter forth from their mountainside caves.
Sharp cries break the silence and pierce through the air,
harsh sounds of anger, of fear and despair.
There's a girl who likes to dream and her name's Annabelle Lee,
she'll sit by her window and dream that she's free.
With the light of the stars in her storm cloud grey eyes
and the rain on her skin from the thunderous skies,
she'll wish and she'll hope and she'll think of the birds,
then she'll tell of their wings with her beautiful words.
She dreams of the world a
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