South by sound, she sailed along
where oceans moan and spread their wings.
A siryn’s call in canyon’s lost;
she cried a ghost to answer me
“I’m waiting. I’m wading.”
Her hellfire eyes parted waves;
a lighthouse lost in fog to die.
The crashing foam swallowed footsteps on the trail,
eroding echoed memories,
soft and fading past Connemara
where Cliffs can’t break her fall.
The morning sky creeps up the ledge,
running red with virgin blood.
Her tattered mast falls to driftwood on the sea,
a star bored keel-haul tragedy
wading in salt for water.