The Myrtle sits
single, lonely
at the crossroads
adorned
with one hundred
cobalt bottles;
waiting.
Evening soon comes
and gentle winds
blow softly
that Aphrodite
sings
her sweet, enticing song.
Weak, evil spirits;
guileless souls,
will, helpless,
answer, her siren call.
Then trapped
Inside the bottle blue
'till dawn.
When morning sun...
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