I wake. A warning 

whirs and wails. 

Sirens whose sounds 

screech along skyscrapers 

and slide down silent streets. 

I find strange solace in the steady 

streams and swells 

as they assemble 

the suffering. 

They circle, and spiral. 

I am soothed 

from the serenity 

of semi-sleep, 

shadows of skin 

made more like scale 

where some seek and search 

for sunken ships, 

they sing, 

but not to warn. 

They herald the

whirs and wails of 

wounded warrior women; 

enslaved, evolved, resilient, strong. 

They siphon the souls of siblings slumbered and set sights on their final stop. Never to stop. A symphony screams. I too, sing. Release silent sufferi -- My swirling curls crave the salt of the sea. 

I synch in soundless 

song for the Sirens 

have surged, 

swords set, 

to shore. 

Their whir 

and wail 

a sista’s 

psalm. 

We are 

woke 

fa’ 

war.