Purgatory Inn– Siren


Purgatory Inn —  “Conversation with a Siren”

 

Always good company at the Purgatory Inn.  Chess games are being played. Long and deep conversation being done. Purgatory Inn, never closes and always entertaining.  Tonight I decide to hang with the lonely customers in the dark corners of the Inn.

 

I sat with a red hair beauty. She smiled at me and she told me. Not appealing a lover who is consumed with their own fortune. The song of love is oppressed to the heart that had withered away. Fruitless love is a dead love.

 

Mistress night make men know boldness and zeal in love. They try to appeased a woman alone hiding in the shadows. Woman hiding in shadows don’t want salvation. Their love demand great payment. Love doesn’t exist for the dark Angel.

 

She asked me. Where have you been lover? Love me long, love me little. Make the night last forever. My glass is filled with Irish whiskey and my song is sad. I want to rejoice on this mid-Summer night. I want us to eat and digest the past and create a love the sleeping Gods will marvel upon.

 

Let’s bathe in the quiet of love. She gestured me to the dance floor. I held her tightly like we were old lovers without boundaries. She whispered to me on the dance floor. Johnnie, no bright or white Angels are here at the Purgatory Inn. Purgatory Inn is for the restless, for the dead who believe in nothing. Here no-one reflects on what was left behind. Flesh demand payment and love wants blood. The Siren sat in deep silence holding my hand tightly.

 

For a minute. I refrained and released the hand of the beauty. Her Irish accent and fire red hair made me wish to swim in her hazel eyes.  I touched her fire red hair gently for a  second and I brought her close and I told her.

 

At Purgatory Inn. There is no regret and no revenge. We who had wasted love and lived for no-one. We must accept the fatal ending. I ordered more Irish whiskey for us. Her hazel green eyes a glowed with false joy and she told me.

 

You have swoon me with your words Poet. Poet are fools. They believe and don’t believe their own words. She kissed me once than kissed me twice.  I told her. Words mean nothing. What we do and accomplish make the person. She embraced me and said.

 

We are the fortunate ones. We have accepted less.

 

Dancing Coyote