As the marrow of being, unfurl onto the land as an experimentation for another breath, another life.

There is a solace for the Siren—
the connector of worlds, the host of perceptions,
the dancer through systems of reference.

She might be divinized, ignored, or cast ashore.
Yet in whatever realm she encounters herself,
in whatever in-between or uncomfortable gap she’s squeezed into by dichotomy,
her own rhythm and time she dares craft—
not allowing the edges of the defensively barren space to close in on her twirling, weaving, or resting, for that matter.

Giving up assumed ‘order’ to discover the beyond,
to give up categorization.

The sea, no matter how full or shallow,
                                   both shapes, both fullness and lack thereof
         of value,                    of presence,
                                                                of fluidity.

Not for being less full
  more precious or relevant,
neither fullness triumphant
  for taking more space,
but accepting of its waning,
  its menguar—
    waxing, weaving,
    storm-ridden,
    or silent plateau-inhabiting.

The Siren,
                 the sea,
                          doesn’t doubt at being,

neither of its force or life.

                                                    Unruly, sensual, divine, giving, devilish—

Catastrophic yet fertile

                                            in a pointed will,

A radical kindness demanded,
                                                         tenderly stated to be visible,

as so to be guarded 

organized under 

                               and heralded through as the care towards otherness