Toujours...jamais...

Your tongue embraces paradox, Monsieur,
in its perpetual romance,
and most condign the dancing words
that fall upon my psyche, as
the Siren that I seek would not do well
beneath the moonlight--
wet and tender, laughing.
Her illumining is from within, and her faint call
may not be heard at all--for like
the drifting ship with all hands lost at sea--
or yet the Voyager that dies among the stars,
her presence is a question, not a creed--
as when a wave would deliquesce
upon an island somewhere,
leaving only echoes
susurrus within the winds
along the shore.

Might there be more, Monsieur?
C'est impossible; c'est vrai.
C'est la musique, decouler de mon coeur.
Toujours...jamais...
toujours.
~