How oft we seek the unattainable,
And the controllers know how to control,
I can jump through hoops,
And the voices certainly told me so,
“La belle dame sans Merci hath thee enthrall.”
The Romantic ideal is always flawed,
That’s just the way of things.
The sirens’ voices called,
I couldn’t resist,
Even tied to the mast,
My soul burst from my body,
Though it was so tightly bound,
I had to have you in whatever way,
And whatever humiliations,
You placed upon me,
Physical love does that,
It mesmerizes and cajoles.
And you were so intelligent,
I’m sure you knew and know,
What you unleashed.
And yet like all Romantic fantasies,
You were totally unworthy,
And totally dishonest,
And in your own way,
You played those lover’s games.
And I think deep down,
There must be an unsettling.
Too many decent mariners have been lulled,
And in the end,
There must be a realization,
That your way will die,
Like the myth it has been based on.
The sirens' song was once powerful,
But it exists,
Only while we still believe.