On Deck

You're just a siren and I'm just a fool, lashed to my mast by reason alone. Your counter-culture song tempts me to jump - but those are rocks beneath the water, not your arms.

Luck is a construction, built of choice and expectations. You think it a current, something to pull ships along, but the perspective's a bit different from on deck. (Reason's the only thing keeping me from the water.)

Yeah, I want to swim with you, lose myself to the current and to you, but fools are notorious for wanting what's worst for them. (Rocks, I remind myself, not arms.)

But sing on, siren: it's beautiful to hear. And half the joy in sailing past is the fear that the rope (oh, strong reason) will break.