something for the sirens

You never did make it out to the middle of the desert, dark and white dogs in military clothes, escaping from the war, looking for a quiet place to finish a very long conversation.  But I suspect that the conversation really doesn't have a finish, that there is no end, like a road doesn't end, or at least it's too long to see all of it in one lifetime.  It's hard to be melancholy when there is no destination, and so many years ahead.  I suspect there are more years ahead than I can fathom from here, and the thing in me that beats my heart against my head to wring the neck of the moment to get out the last drops of blood is a liar, and that I'm not getting as old as I'm supposed to be acting. 
Sirens come into my house and tell me this is no time to act my age.
Sirens tell me to come into their living room, it's made of rock and smells like the sea, and if I go, I will get torn apart in a thousand directions and lose my sense of direction.  And I go, because my good sense never did treat me very well, and I'm partial to anyone who can begin a tempting invitation with a threat.  It's more honest that way.
It's a strange place to call home.  There are those around me who offer their advice, to lead a quiet life, to do things that are easy and comfortable, to find something that will keep me stable.  But they'll never know what it's like to find comfort in the cemetery, and the quiet that comes to you in the middle of a storm.  And they advise me to stay away from those hard and melancholy places, because I won't find anything worth keeping there, but they don't know that those places are where the songs are, and I'm supposed to make songs out of these threads of a life.
And that's the place where all the nevers and gone forevers turn, take their own turn, and revel themselves as the hundred thousand not yets that keep my blood running in my veins, and my eyes sharp and clear, and my head turned decidedly in the direction of another drum altogether, because I am old enough to understand that a threat is also a promise.
The strangest thing about this place is that I'm following these lines of flight, with a promise to help anyone who asks, and whenever I'm wanting too much more, someone shows up who needs to know something about the roads that are dangerous and rewarding, and I get to learn that I do have maps, and I've been places and done things that I have to keep secretly locked away, until someone asks the right question.  Alchemy is learning how to ask the right question.
The answer always starts with a yes.

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