The Siren and the Oracle

by jimowensjr

Haunted, 

since youth, 

in those days

when my face was 

uncreased,

my skin unmarked 

by the scars of adventure 

and mishap

when my hair hung thick from my head

and I would tip it back,

shaking it away from my ever-broadening forehead

when my eyes were clear

and my vision sharp,

even then I heard it

that indeterminant noise, 

emanating from somewhere,

somewhere deep within me,

barely masked 

by the hum 

of responsibility, 

of duty 

and convention.

I keep wondering 

if this insatiable specter, 

this hungry spirit, 

will someday relent, and I ask myself,

is this some siren beckoning me toward the jagged shoreline

where I will be battered upon the rocks,

washed ashore,

my flesh pale and 

marked by the wounds of regret 

and the shrieking flocks?

Or is it 

the Oracle,

some sage, perhaps, 

calling me toward a 

destiny resisted, 

beseeching me to discover 

something profound 

something true, 

harkening me to an understanding some metaphysical mystery,

that might finally be comprehended,

to unshackling me from the chains

that I might be liberated from the ordinary?

I hear it still, 

that unceasing sound

in the howling wind 

and in the gentle breeze, 

in darkness, 

as I lay in my bed 

and the morning light when I rise, 

and I keep wondering

is it the Siren that calls 

or The Oracle?