Like a siren, like an Early Bronze singer,

On a wave-struck rock drawing sailors into die

My muse, as usual, seems to have a stinger,

And she sees me through an eerie compound eye.

 

Does she hide her stinger well? I’d say so, fairly.

She’s an heiress on a late a Victorian lane

Who doubles me with wit, but her ocelli

Sometimes glare at me, in a way that shouts “Insane!”

 

Her antenna are buried deep within a boater 

There’s tanning cream to hide the black and yellow

Such that when she takes her phone, asks for a photo,

You’d wonder why I’m such a frightened fellow.

 

The answer is, as usual, nature’s screaming:

“Find some normal girl, in modern clothes, in denim!”

But in soul-mate search, in my unconscious dreaming,

I’m drawn to brightness; to the risk of venom.