the sailor drug his near-corpse to shore,
the moon making a phantom of his form.
his lungs were filled with the crystalline sea,
his fingers clenched around a recent dream.

the lighthouse he trekked choked with night,
every step getting closer to his own delight.
the thought of mystical eyes, and the siren's song,
made every move he thought right to be wrong.

but when he tried to play God, turning on the light,
no gold broke through the black of the night.
his heart could take it, encrusted with salt and sand,
and the siren held his death in the palm of her hand.