The Seafarer's Diary; Berceuse: #7 Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

Perched atop a pinnacle,
The waves lambaste
The surrounding adamantites.
A plenitude of clouds
Satiate the heavens
And the threat of rain
Is defeated.

A siren sings
A jocund tune
But then, her harp -
A brass harp
That breathes lavishly
As her garish stance
Portrays rue -
A siren perniciously burdened
By the mad ways
Of the sea,
The stars
And the gods that trifle
With our fate.

The pelicans narrate her faults
And I caressed the seas,
As my vessel motions
To her, at the foot of the pinnacle
With my simian jaw craning
Upward – my soul uprooted from
My mesh and the totality
Of my labyrinth is shunned.

Oh and how she sang
Was the pristine aesthetic
Of the seraphs.
I can hear her ode to melancholy:
O vale hath deprived
Everything in here relishes
In a demise, a thousand-pronged pang
The infinite sky illuminates
The forlornness that
Stifles me in a flourish of ebony -
The ebony sea, laughing at me.

I disengaged from my vessel
And clambered the pinnacle
With all vigor and fire -
Only to listen
To this siren’s hoarse cry
And maybe,
We are one
In this oceanic union.