The Sirens

They make themselves visible when I least suspect them.
I assume when their presence isn't even present

in my deepest brain cavities,
Long after I have forgotten that such beings

can exist within five senses.
That's when they sneak up on me,

but not from behind a tree

or my back

or any of the many stealthy hiding spots around.
They'll appear before me,

smack bang in front...silent...almost hovering.
Before I can clearly make out their outlines they'll slap my frozen cheeks

with their gentle translucent hands

and lightly frolic away before I can even feel full sting.

And I'm left standing,

my legs somehow still balancing my weight,
My skull somehow still holding onto my jaw as the burn melts into my face

and grabs hold the back of my pulsing eyeballs.
The sirens wail reminds me to breathe again,

I draw in two lung fulls of crisp forest air,

tasting the aged wood and autumn leaf particles pass over my tongue and cut down my dry throat,
I hold onto it for longer than I should,

until my chest hurts and my head starts to spin to the rhythm of the wails,
but sure enough, it too frolics away and the sound and the memory of the sirens fade

and I’m left back in the clearing,

more lost than ever.