This is not a soft resting of the head, but a surrender.
There is no seafoam to float on, but instead, bones
made from the metal of the anchors of boats, heavy
with the desire of returning to the earth. It is true, light
does exist so long as the sun still burns. But here, in the
depths of a cold that has never been touched by sunlight,
there is only blindness.

The sirens sing melodies reminiscent of the lullabies that
fall from the mouths of mother and into the ears of infants.
To be held, to feel at peace, these innate desires.
To be unborn again.

Fingers grip, the theory of magnetism and the body of an anchor.
Here, there is blindness, a pressuring cold.
Here, the sirens return me to the womb.