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The siren song Wail, you accost the night with your woesome lighthouse beacon, beckoning undiluated through moonlit navy halls to piece the swollen breast of sleep. I, your slumbered ship of choice, detect through dreams and distance, mommy radar precisely netting bait-schools of casted notes. I need no latitude nor starry skies to nagivate this nightly course ‘cross chilly floors and a sea of toys directly to your shores. It’s the longing that moors love with opiate, melodious ease– such unabashed need for me swell-drowns the outside world. An infant siren knows his power– pajama-clad, unyielding– determined with open arms and candid lungs to lure me in the wee hours. Unlike fateful, seatime tales, this, mine, a treasured find. Through wind and waves, I freely steer, steeled from wakeful storms. Whale-song, you don’t alarm, for I know your high-pitched secret– a decoy deters night fright with voice and mirrors and salty tears. Such blissful, shiply justice that a siren can be lured! Rocked and calmed by milk and kiss, he wail-lessly, boy-antly, willingingly drifts. . . on-course to sweeter sleep. |
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